THE  SAILOR 

J»  C-SNAITH 


THE  SAILOR 


'Mr.   Harper  was  completely  out  of  his  depth." 


267.] 


THE  SAILOR 


BY 

J.  C.  SNAITH 


AUTHOR  OF 

BROKE  OF  COVENDEN,  ARAMINTA,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

W.  A.  HOTTINGER 


GROSSET    &   DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


"Mr.  Harper  was  completely  out  of  his  depth." 

Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"A  nigger  with  rings  in  his  ears  came  forward  with 

alight." 38 

"'I  was  a  bit  on  last  night,'  she  said  with  well 

assumed  humility." 308 

"'Mary/  he  said,  '  do  you  remember  your  words 

eleven  months  ago?'" 438 


203G? 


THE   SAILOR 


BOOK  I 

GESTATION 


A  LARGE  woman  in  a  torn  dress  stood  at  the  gate  of 
a  rag  and  bone  dealer's  yard.    The  season  was  No- 
vember, the  hour  midnight,  the  place  a  slum  in  a 
Midland  textile  town. 

Hanging  from  the  wall  of  the  house  beyond  was  a  dirty 
oil  lamp  round  which  the  fog  circled  in  a  hundred  spectral 
shapes.  Seen  by  its  light,  she  was  not  pleasant  to  look  upon. 
Bare-armed,  bare-headed,  savage  chest  half  bare  and  sagging 
in  festoons,  she  stood  stayless  and  unashamed,  breathing  gin 
and  wickedness.  A  grin  of  quiet  joy  was  upon  her  alcoholic 
countenance.  Nay,  more  than  joy.  It  was  a  light  of  inward 
ecstasy,  and  sprang  from  the  fact  that  a  heavy  carter's  whip 
was  in  her  hand. 

Not  many  feet  from  the  spot  on  which  she  stood  was  the 
wall  jof  a  neighbor's  house.  Crouching  against  it  so  that 
he  was  scarcely  visible  in  the  darkness  was  a  boy  of  thirteen. 
Without  stockings  or  shoes,  he  wore  only  a  filthy  shirt,  a 
thing  that  had  once  been  a  jacket,  and  a  tattered  lower  gar- 
ment which  left  his  thighs  half  naked. 

His  face  was  transfigured  with  terror. 
I 


THE  SAILOR 

"Enery  Arper,"  said  the  woman  with  a  shrill  snigger 
not  unlike  the  whinny  of  a  horse,  "Auntie  said  she'd  wait  up 
for  you,  didn't  she?  And  she  always  keeps  a  promise,  don't 
she,  my  boy?" 

The  figure  six  yards  away  the  fog  was  doing  its  best  to 
hide  cowered  yet  closer  to  the  wall. 

"And  what  was  it,  Enery,  that  Auntie  promised  you  if 
you  come  'ome  again  with  ninepence?"  The  wheeze  of  the 
voice  had  a  note  of  humor. 

The  boy  was  wedged  so  close  to  the  wall  that  he  had 
barked  the  skin  off  his  bare  knees.  The  woman,  watching 
him  intently,  began  to  trail  the  heavy  lash  on  the  cobbled 
yard. 

"Said  she'd  make  it  up  to  a  shillin'  for  you,  didn't  she? 
...  if  you  come  'ome  again  with  ninepence.  Said  she'd 
cut  the  heart  out  o'  you  .  .  .  same  as  if  it  was  the  eye  of  a 
pertater." 

A  powerful  arm  was  already  loose.  The  eye  of  an  expert 
had  the  distance  measured  to  a  nicety. 

"Clean  out." 

A  scream  followed  that  was  not  human.  The  heavy  whip 
had  caught  the  boy  round  the  unprotected  thighs. 

"I'll  do  ye  in  this  time." 

Mad  with  pain  and  terror  the  boy  dashed  straight  at  her, 
charging  like  a  desperate  animal,  as  with  leisurely  ferocity 
she  prepared  for  a  second  cut  at  him.  The  impact  of  his 
body  was  so  unexpected  that  it  nearly  knocked  her  down. 

It  was  his  only  chance.  Before  she  could  recover  her 
balance  he  was  out  of  the  gate  and  away  in  the  fog.  A  lane 
ran  past  the  yard.  He  was  in  it  before  the  whip  could  reach 
him  again;  in  it  and  running  for  his  life. 

The  lane  was  short,  straight  and  very  narrow,  with  high 
walls  on  both  sides.  A  turn  to  the  right  led  through  a  small 
entry  into  a  by-street  which  gave  access  to  one  of  the  main 
2 


TTIE  SAILOR 

thoroughfares  of  the  city.  A  turn  to  the  left  ended  In  a  blank 
wall  which  formed  a  blind  alley. 

By  the  time  the  boy  was  halfway  down  the  lane,  he  realized 
that  in  his  mad  terror  he  had  turned  to  the  left  instead  of 
to  the  right.  There  was  no  escape.  He  was  in  a  trap. 

A  moment  he  hesitated,  sick  with  fear.  He  could  hear 
the  heavy  footfalls  of  his  pursuer;  as  she  plowed  through 
the  fog  he  could  hear  her  wheezy  grunts  and  alcoholic  curses. 

"Took  the  wrong  turnin',  eh?"  She  was  within  ten 
yards.  "Hold  on  a  minute,  that's  all,  young  man !" 

In  sheer  desperation  the  boy  ran  on  again,  well  knowing 
he  could  not  get  beyond  the  wall  at  the  bottom  of  the  lane. 
He  could  see  it  already.  A  lamp  was  there,  faintly  revealing 
its  grim  outline  with  fog  around  it. 

"I'll  do  ye  in,  by  God,  I  will!" 

The  voice  was  so  near  that  his  knees  began  to  fail.  Over- 
come with  terror  he  threw  himself  on  the  ground  near  the 
wall.  He  had  neither  the  strength  nor  the  courage  to  try 
again  the  trick  that  had  saved  him  a  minute  ago. 

He  knew  she  was  standing  under  the  lamp,  he  knew  she 
was  looking  for  him. 

"Ah,  Enery,  I  see  yer,"  she  said,  with  a  savage  laugh. 

Content  to  know  there  was  no  escape  for  him  she  paused 
to  get  her  breath. 

The  boy  began  to  wriggle  along  under  the  lea  of  the  wall, 
while  she  stood  watching  him.  The  wall  was  old,  and  all  at 
once  he  made  a  discovery.  Close  to  his  head  was  a  small 
hole,  where  three  or  four  bricks  had  fallen  out.  It  was  a 
mere  black  space,  leading  he  knew  not  where.  But  he  didn't 
hesitate.  Hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  he  squeezed  his  head 
through  the  hole.  And  then  with  the  frenzied  desperation 
of  a  rat  in  a  trap  he  dragged  his  body  after  it. 

An  oath  came  from  the  woman  under  the  lamp,  a  short 
ten  yards  off.  She  sprang  at  the  w?ll.  She  lashed  at  it  again 
3 


THE  SAILOR 

and  again,  cursing  horribly.  But  it  was  no  use.  Her  prey 
had  escaped  with  one  savage  cut  across  the  heels.  She  con- 
tinued to  lash  at  the  hole,  but  the  boy  was  out  of  her  reach. 


II 


WHERE  was  he?  He  didn't  know.  Half  dead  with 
fear  he  could  hear  her  lashing  at  the  wall,  but  she 
wouldn't  be  able  to  get  at  him. 

With  a  great  effort  he  rose  from  his  hands  and  knees.  He 
had  hardly  strength  to  stand  up.  He  seemed  to  be  in  a  sort 
of  garden.  There  was  mold  under  his  feet.  It  was  too  dark 
to  see  it,  but  he  knew  by  the  smell;  also  it  was  damp  and 
sticky.  He  moved  a  few  yards  and  his  feet  became  entangled 
among  roots  and  bushes.  And  then  suddenly  a  dog  began 
to  bark  and  his  heart  stood  still. 

For  quite  a  minute  he  dared  not  move  another  step.  The 
dog  sounded  very  near,  yet  he  could  not  return  by  the  way 
he  had  come.  No,  in  spite  of  the  dog  he  must  find  another 
outlet  from  this  garden.  Very  cautiously  he  moved  a  yard 
or  two,  and  then  stopped  to  listen.  Shaking  with  terror  he 
then  moved  on  again. 

Groping  about  in  the  fog  and  darkness,  his  teeth  chattering 
with  cold,  his  brain  quite  numb,  it  seemed  that  he  would 
never  be  able  to  find  a  way  out.  Where  was  he?  He  had 
no  idea  of  anything  except  the  ground  under  his  feet.  Now 
it  was  a  stretch  of  gravel,  now  a  rubbish  heap,  now  moist 
earth,  now  roots  and  bushes,  and  then  finally,  after  the  lapse 
of  hours  as  it  seemed,  he  came  up  against  a  wall. 

It  might  be  the  wall  through  which  he  had  crept.    Of  that 

he  could  not  be  sure,  but  yet  he  did  not  think  it  was.     He 

began  to  follow  the  line  of  it,  taking  care  to  do  so  in  the 

opposite  direction  to  the  dog  whose  barking  was  incessant. 

4 


THE  SAILOR 

As  he  walked  he  rubbed  his  hands  along  the  surface  of  the 
wall  in  the  hope  of  finding  a  gate. 

For  a  long  time  he  groped  through  the  darkness,  but 
came  upon  nothing  in  the  least  resembling  a  gate.  Again  he 
grew  desperate.  He  would  have  to  wait  there  until  daylight. 
But  he  simply  dared  not  do  that  with  the  dog  straining  at  his 
chain,  seemingly,  only  a  very  few  yards  off. 

Sick  with  cold  and  shaking  in  every  limb  he  began  to  cry 
feebly.  His  knees  were  knocking,  he  was  at  the  end  of  his 
wits.  There  was  no  way  out  of  the  garden,  yet  if  he  stayed 
in  it  the  dog  would  kill  him.  Suddenly  he  decided  upon  the 
only  possible  course;  he  must  climb  the  wall.  Not  knowing 
its  height,  or  what  there  was  beyond,  or  whether  it  was 
merely  the  wall  of  a  house,  he  began  to  "shin"  up  it  for  all 
he  was  worth,  grasping  its  rough  surface  as  well  as  he  could 
with  his  hands  and  his  knees  and  his  bare  toes.  There  must 
be  some  kind  of  a  top  to  it,  and  when  the  dog  broke  his  chain, 
as  every  moment  he  threatened  to  do,  he  might  not  be  able 
to  reach  him. 

Wild  and  precarious  struggling,  in  the  course  of  which 
he  was  several  times  within  an  ace  of  toppling  backwards  into 
the  garden,  brought  his  numb  fingers  at  last  to  a  kind  of 
coping.  He  had  just  strength  enough  to  draw  up  his  body 
on  to  the  narrow  ledge,  only  to  find  that  he  could  not  possibly 
remain  on  it.  The  top  of  the  wall  was  sown  thickly  with 
broken  glass. 

He  knew  his  hands  and  knees  were  cut,  yet  he  could 
hardly  feel  anything.  There  was  only  one  thing  to  do  now ; 
he  must  jump  for  it — one  side  or  the  other.  He  came  to  no 
deliberate  decision;  at  that  moment  he  was  completely  un- 
balanced in  body  and  mind,  but  a  voice  inside  him  said 
suddenly : 

"Chance  it!" 

Hands  and  knees  instinctively  gripping  as  hard  as  they 
5 


THE  SAILOR 

could,  he  slipped  over  the  other  side.  But  it  was  impossible 
to  keep  a  hold.  He  slipped  and  swayed  and  slipped  again, 
and  then  he  knew  that  he  was  falling  .  .  .  falling  .  .  . 
falling  through  space  into  the  unknown. 


Ill 


SOMETHING  hit  him,  something  so  hard  that  it 
seemed  to  crack  him  as  if  he  had  been  an  egg.  It  was 
the  earth.  He  lay  a  moment  almost  without  sensation, 
and  then  he  realized  that  the  dog  was  no  longer  barking. 
Feeling  reassured  he  made  an  effort  to  rise.  He  couldn't 
move.  The  sensation  was  horrible.  Perhaps  he  had  broken 
his  back. 

He  tried  several  times,  and  because  he  could  feel  no  pain 
the  thought  seemed  to  grow  upon  him.  Presently,  however, 
he  found  he  could  stand.  Still  dazed  and  shaken  in  every 
bone,  he  knew  now  that  he  had  had  the  luck  to  fall  upon 
soft  earth.  But  as  soon  as  he  stood  up  there  came  a  savage 
grinding  pain  in  his  left  leg,  and  he  lay  down  whimpering 
feebly.  He  then  got  up  again,  and  then  lay  down  again, 
and  then  suddenly  he  wished  he  was  dead. 

If  only  he  had  had  the  luck  to  kill  himself!  But  every 
moment  now  made  the  wish  seem  more  vain.  He  was 
conscious  of  one  ache  after  another,  in  every  part  of  his 
body;  his  hands  and  feet  were  bleeding,  he  was  sick  and 
sorry,  but  he  seemed  to  know  that  death  was  a  long  way  off. 

Suddenly  he  stood  up  again.  The  cold,  wet  earth  under 
him  was  unendurable.  Where  was  he?  He  set  his  teeth,  and 
began  to  drag  his  left  leg  after  him  in  order  to  find  out. 

Where  was  he?  This  place  seemed  a  sort  of  garden  too. 
But  there  was  no  dog  in  it.  The  damp  soil  was  merged  very 
soon  in  substances  less  gentle  to  the  feet;  old  crocks  and 
6 


THE  SAILOR 

scraps  of  metal  and  other  debris,  the  prelude  to  a  rubbish 
heap.  And  then  without  in  the  least  expecting  it,  he  came 
upon  water.  The  question  was  answered.  He  was  on  the 
bank  of  the  canal. 

The  knowledge  chilled  right  through  him.  Here  and  now 
was  his  chance.  It  wouldn't  take  more  than  a  minute  if 
he  jumped  straight  in.  But  the  water  looked  still  and  cold 
and  horrible.  As  he  came  to  the  edge  he  found  he  couldn't 
face  it.  He  simply  hadn't  the  pluck. 

He  limped  on  a  few  yards.  It  might  seem  easier  a  bit 
lower  down.  But  when  he  came  a  bit  lower  down  he  couldn't 
face  it  either,  and  he  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  water  crying 
miserably. 

After  a  while  he  dragged  himself  away  from  the  canal. 
He  stumbled  over  rubbish  heaps  and  stones  and  brickbats, 
varied  now  and  then  with  nettles  and  twitch  grass.  He  came 
to  a  low  bridge  and  crossed  it.  Nothing  would  have  been 
easier  than  to  slip  over  the  side ;  it  might  have  been  there  for 
the  purpose;  but  this  was  one  of  the  places  where  the  fog 
had  lifted  a  little,  again  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  water 
and  again  he  moved  on. 

At  last  he  came  to  some  wooden  railings  and  got  through 
a  gap  where  one  or  two  had  been  broken.  Here  the  fog  was 
so  thick  that  he  lost  his  bearings  altogether.  He  didn't  know 
in  the  least  where  he  was,  he  couldn't  see  his  hand  before 
him;  and  then  he  stumbled  over  something  which  jarred  his 
hurt  foot  horribly.  The  something  was  a  wire. 

Of  course,  it  was  the  railway.  He  remembered,  almost 
with,  a  feeling  of  excitement,  that  the  railway  was  in  the  next 
field  to  the  canal.  A  moment  he  stood  trying  to  make  out 
things  and  noises  in  the  fog.  Yes,  he  could  hear,  at  least  he 
thought  he  could  hear,  wagons  being  shunted  in  the  sidings. 
After  he  had  moved  a  few  yards  towards  the  sound,  he  was 
able  to  make  out  a  red  light  in  the  distance. 
7 


THE  SAILOR 

For  some  odd  reason  which  he  couldn't  explain,  the 
feeling  of  excitement  began  to  grow  with  the  certainty  that 
he  was  on  the  line.  He  could  feel  the  metals,  icy  cold,  smooth 
and  slippery  under  his  feet.  He  limped  along  until  a  dim 
shape  loomed  ahead.  It  was  a  signal  box.  By  this  time  his 
excitement  was  almost  terrible. 

He  stood  a  moment  listening  to  the  snortings  of  an  engine 
which  he  couldn't  see,  and  the  clang-clang-clang  of  the 
wagons  as  they  were  being  shunted  in  the  sidings.  And  then 
all  at  once  the  signal  under  which  he  was  shivering  dropped 
with  a  great  clatter,  and  something  very  deep  down  in  him, 
a  something  he  had  not  known  existed  until  that  moment, 
gave  a  sort  of  little  exultant  cry  and  told  him  that  now  was 
his  chance. 

Excited  almost  to  the  verge  of  joy  he  limped  past  the 
signal  box  in  order  to  get  away  from  its  lights.  If  the  thing 
was  done  at  all  it  would  have  to  be  done  in  darkness.  Pres- 
ently he  looked  round,  and  with  a  sensation  of  downright 
terror,  found  that  the  lights  of  the  signal  box  were  no  longer 
to  be  seen.  Here  the  fog  was  quite  thick  again ;  whichever 
way  he  looked  there  was  not  a  single  object  he  could  make 
out  in  the  darkness.  But  under  his  bare  feet  he  could  feel 
the  broad  metals  icy,  smooth,  inexorable. 

"Now's  your  chance,"  said  a  gentle  voice  deep  down  in 
himself. 

Instantly  he  lay  full  length  in  the  six-foot  way. 

"Set  your  head  on  the  line,"  said  the  voice. 

He  did  as  he  was  told.  The  sensation  of  the  icy  metal 
under  his  right  ear  was  so  horrible  that  his  heart  almost 
stopped  inside  him. 

"Close  your  eyes,"  said  the  voice,  and  then  it  said  a  little 
more  gently  as  if  it  knew  that  already  he  was  half  dead  with 
fear,  "Stay  just  as  you  are  and  you'll  not  know  nothink 
about  it." 

8 


THE  SAILOR 

He  closed  his  eyes. 

"Don't  move,"  said  the  voice.  "Stay  there  and  it'll  not 
hurt  you." 

If  he  had  had  a  God  to  pray  to,  he  would  have  prayed. 

The  engine  seemed  a  long  time  on  the  way.  He  daren't 
move  hand  or  foot,  he  daren't  stir  a  muscle  of  his  body. 
But  as  the  seconds  passed  an  intense  desire  came  upon  him 
to  change  the  position  of  his  head.  It  felt  so  undefended 
sideways  on.  Surely  it  would  be  better  if  he  turned  it  round 
so  that.  .  .  . 

"Don't  move,"  the  voice  commanded  him.  "Keep  just 
like  that.  Quite  still." 

He  was  bound  to  obey.    The  voice  was  stronger  than  he. 

"Eyes  shut,  and  you'll  not  know  nothink." 

It  was  as  a  mother  would  have  spoken  had  he  ever  heard 
a  mother  speak. 

.  .  .  The  engine  was  coming.  He  could  hear  it  snorting 
and  rattling  in  the  distance.  He  simply  daren't  listen.  He 
tried  to  imagine  he  was  already  dead.  But  a  frightful  crash 
suddenly  broke  in  upon  his  brain,  and  then  another,  and 
then  another  ...  he  had  never  realized  how  much  it  toolc 
to  ... 

"Fog  signals,"  said  the  voice.  "Keep  just  as  you  are  .  .  • 
eyes  shut  .  .  .  quite  still  .  .  .  quite  still." 

There  it  was,  grunting  and  rattling.  .  .  .  Know  nothink ! 
.  .  .  there  .  .  .  now  .  .  . 

Grunting,  rattling,  snorting,  what  a  time  it  took!  In 
spite  of  himself  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  found  that  he  was 
still^  alive. 

"You  were  on  the  wrong  line  after  all." 

The  sound  of  the  voice  turned  him  faint. 


THE  SAILOR 


IV 


THERE  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done  now,  and  this 
he  did  without  delay.  He  took  his  head  from  the 
metals  and  stood  up  as  well  as  he  could.  His  body 
was  all  numb  and  lifeless,  but  there  was  a  queer  excitement 
in  him  somewhere  that  for  the  moment  made  him  feel  almost 
happy.  After  all,  he  wasn't  dead.  And  in  that  strange 
moment  that  was  like  a  dream  he  was  almost  glad  he  wasn't. 
Yes,  almost  glad.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  he  should 
wish  to  find  himself  alive,  and  yet  as  he  stretched  his  limbs 
and  began  to  move  he  couldn't  honestly  say  that  after  all  he 
wasn't  just  a  little  bit  pleased. 

He  was  not  able  to  move  very  fast;  he  was  so  dreadfully 
cold  for  one  thing,  and  then  his  left  foot  was  hurt.  But  now, 
as  he  walked  along  the  six-foot  way,  he  felt  somehow  stronger 
than  he  had  ever  felt  in  his  life  before.  Of  a  sudden  he 
crossed  the  metals  and  plunged  recklessly  sideways  into  the 
fog.  He  stumbled  over  some  signal  wires  and  fell  on  his 
knees,  got  up  and  stumbled  over  some  more.  What  did  it 
matter?  What  did  anything  matter?  After  all,  it  was  quite 
easy  to  die.  He  must  find  the  right  line  and  make  a  job 
of  it. 

He  stopped  a  moment,  and  turned  this  thought  over  in 
his  mind.  And  then  he  heard  the  voice  again. 

"Henry  Harper,  you'll  never  be  able  to  do  that  again  as 
long  as  you  live." 

The  words  were  gentle  and  composed,  but  they  struck 
him  like  a  curse.  He  knew  that  they  were  true.  Not  as 
long  as  he  lived  would  he  be  able  to  do  again  as  he  had  just 
done.  It  was  as  if  the  judge  in  his  wig  whom  he  had  seen 
that  afternoon  riding  to  the  Assizes  in  his  gilt  carriage  had 
passed  a  life  sentence  upon  him.  His  knees  began  to  crum- 
10 


THE  SAILOR 

ble  under  him  again;  he  could  have  shrieked  with  terror. 

Crying  miserably  he  limped  along  into  the  sidings.  He 
came  to  a  lamp.  All  around  were  silent,  grim  shapes  upon 
which  its  feeble  light  was  cast.  They  were  loaded  wagons, 
sheeted  with  tarpaulins.  With  the  amazing  recklessness  that 
had  just  been  born  in  him  he  determined  to  find  a  way  into 
one  of  them  in  the  hope  of  being  able  to  lie  down  and  sleep. 

It  was  not  very  difficult  to  climb  up  and  get  under  one 
of  the  sheets,  which  happened  to  have  been  loosely  tied. 
Also  he  had  the  luck  to  find  a  bed  that  would  have  been 
more  or  less  comfortable  had  the  night  not  been  so  bitterly 
cold.  The  wagon  was  loaded  with  sacks  full  of  a  substance 
soft  and  yielding;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  flour. 

Henry  Harper  lay  down  with  a  feeling  of  relief  and  bur- 
rowed among  the  sacks  as  far  as  he  could  get.  A  mass  of 
aches  in  body  and  soul,  anything  was  better  than  the  darkness 
and  damp  fog  and  icy  substances  cutting  into  his  bare  feet. 

Presently,  with  the  sacks  piled  all  round  him,  he  felt  less 
miserable,  and  he  fell  asleep. 

How  long  he  slept  he  didn't  know.  But  it  must  have  been 
some  little  time,  and  the  sleep  must  have  been  fairly  sound, 
for  he  was  only  awakened  by  a  great  jolt  of  the  wagon.  And 
before  he  was  fully  awake  it  had  begun  to  move. 

Hadn't  he  better  jump  out?  No,  let  it  move.  Let  it  do 
anything  it  liked.  Let  it  go  anywhere  it  pleased.  What  did 
it  matter?  Again  he  fell  asleep. 

The  next  time  he  awoke  he  was  shivering  with  cold  and 
feeling  very  hungry.  But  the  wagon  was  moving  now  and 
no  mistake.  It  was  still  pitch  dark,  although  the  fog  seemed 
to  have  lifted  a  bit,  but  the  detonators  which  had  been  placed 
on  the  line  were  going  off  now  and  again  with  tremendous 
reports,  signals  flew  past,  and  while  he  lay  wondering  what 
he  ought  to  do  now,  he  passed  through  an  array  of  lights 
which  looked  like  a  station. 

2  ii 


THE  SAILOR 

He  soon  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  useless  to 
do  anything.  He  couldn't  get  out  of  the  wagon  now  even  if 
he  wanted  to,  that  was  unless  he  wanted  to  kill  himself. 
Yes  .  .  .  that  was  exactly  what.  .  .  . 

"Lie  quiet.  Go  to  sleep:"  a  stern  voice  commanded 
him. 

He  tried  to  sleep  again  but  soon  found  he  couldn't.  He 
was  cold  and  ill,  but  after  an  attack  of  vomiting  he  felt 
better.  Meanwhile  the  wagon  rattled  on  and  on  through 
the  night,  and  it  seemed  to  go  faster  the  farther  it  went. 

Where  was  it  going?  What  did  it  matter  where  it  went 
so  long  as  he  went  with  it?  But — the  sudden  thought  was 
like  a  blow — that  was  just  what  did  matter!  They  would 
find  him  lying  there,  and  they,  would  give  him  to  the  police, 
and  the  police  would  do  something  to  him.  He  knew  all 
about  that,  because  they  had  done  something  to  him  once 
already  for  taking  an  apple  off  a  stall  in  the  market  place. 
He  had  only  taken  one,  but  they  had  given  him  six  strokes, 
and  in  spite  of  the  cold  and  the  pain  in  his  left  leg  he  still 
remembered  just  what  they  were  like. 

Perhaps  he  ought  to  jump  for  it.  No,  that  was  impossible 
with  his  leg  like  that;  the  wagon  was  going  too  fast.  He 
had  better  lie  quiet  and  slip  out  as  soon  as  the  wagon  stopped 
at  a  station.  He  burrowed  far  down  into  the  sacks  once 
more,  for  the  sake  of  the  warmth,  and  after  a  while  he  went 
to  sleep  again. 

And  then  he  had  a  dream  that  filled  him  with  terror.  The 
police  had  found  him.  The  police  had  found  him  in  the 
wagon. 

He  awoke  with  a  start.  Rough  hands  were  shaking  him. 
Yes,  it  was  perfectly  true! 

"Kirn  up  ...  you!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  police. 

He  turned  over  with  a  whimper  and  lifted  up  his  head, 
12 


THE  SAILOR 

only  to  drop  it  instantly.  He  had  been  blinded  by  the  glare 
of  a  lantern  held  six  inches  from  his  eyes. 

"Well,  damn  me,"  a  great,  roaring  voice  surged  into  his 
ears.  "Here,  Ike!" 

"What's  up  now?"  said  a  second  voice,  roaring  like  the 
first. 

"Come  and  look  at  this." 

The  boy  dug  his  head  into  the  sacks. 

"What's  up?"  said  voice  the  second. 

"What  about  it?     Must  ha'  got  in  at  Blackhampton." 

"Well,  damn  me." 

The  boy  burrowed  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  sacks. 

"Here,  come  out  of  it."  The  owner  of  the  first  voice 
took  him  by  the  ear  and  dragged  him  out  of  the  wagon. 

"What's  yer  name?" 

No  answer. 

His  captor  shook  him  roughly. 

"Enry  Arper,"  whimpered  the  boy. 

"Enry  what?" 

"Enry  Arper." 

"Enry  Arper,  is  it?  Well,  you  are  going  to  have  some- 
thing to  'arp  for,  you  are,  my  lad." 

"Ever  had  the  birch  rod,  Mister  Enry  Arper?"  inquired 
the  first  voice  with  a  kind  of  grim  pleasantness. 

The  boy  didn't  answer. 

"No?  Not  had  that  pleasure?  The  police  are  going  to 
cut  the  skin  off  o'  you  and  sarve  you  right.  They'll  larn  you 
to  trespass  on  to  the  railway.  Fetch  the  foreman,  Ike." 

WHile  the  boy,  securely  held  by  the  ear,  stood  shivering, 
Ike  went  leisurely  in  search  of  the  foreman  shunter.  It  was 
six  o'clock,  and  that  individual,  who  had  been  on  duty  since 
that  hour  the  previous  evening,  was  on  the  point  of  going 
home.  Ike  found  him  in  the  messroom,  where  he  had  gone 
to  exchange  his  lantern  for  the  small  wicker  basket  in  which 
13 


THE  SAILOR 

he  brought  his  meals.  His  name  was  Job  Lorimer,  and  being 
large  and  fat  and  florid  he  sauntered  up  to  the  scene  of  action 
with  an  air  of  frank  acceptance  of  life  as  it  is,  that  seems  to 
go  as  a  rule  with  his  type  of  physique  and  countenance. 

"Why,  blow  me,  Iggins,  what's  all  this  year?" 

"Allow  me  to  introjuice  Mr.  Enry  Arper  o'  Blackhamp- 
ton. — Mr.  Job  Lorimer,  foreman  shunter,  Kentish  Town." 

"  'Owdy  do,  young  man.  Pleased  to  meet  you."  Mr. 
Lorimer  winked  solemnly  at  both  his  subordinates.  "What 
can  we  do  for  you?" 

"Twelve  strokes  with  the  birch  rod,"  said  subordinate  the 
first. 

"Eight  for  the  first  offence,"  said  subordinate  the  second. 

Suddenly  the  boy  fell  down  senseless  at  the  foreman  shun- 
ter's feet. 


WELL,  blow  me,"  said  the  Foreman  Shunter.   "Show 
the  light,  Pearson." 
The  second  subordinate  maneuvered  the  lantern. 
"On'y  a  kid.    And  I  never  see  sich  a  state  as  he's  in.     No 
boots.     No  stockings.     Just  look  at  them  feet.     And  his 
hands  all  of  a  mush.    Gawd!"  said  the  Foreman  Shunter. 

"What'll  you  do  about  it,  Job?"  said  subordinate  number 
one. 

"Do  about  it?"  said  the  Foreman  Shunter  sharply.     "Do 
about  what?" 

"Might  let  him  go  this  time?"  said  subordinate  number 
two. 

The  boy  opened  his  eyes. 

"I'll  take  him  'ome  to  the  missus  and  give  him  some  break- 
fast," said  the  Foreman  Shunter  with  an  air  of  asperity. 
The  odd  thing  was  that  both  subordinates  seemed  silently 
14 


THE  SAILOR 

to  approve  this  grave  dereliction  of  a  foreman  shunter's  duty, 

"Can  you  walk,  me  lad?" 

"O'  course  he  can't,  Iggins.  not  with  them,"  said  the 
Foreman  Shunter.  "Can't  stand  on  'em,  let  alone  walk  on 
'em.  Here,  catch  holt  o'  the  bawsket." 

The  Foreman  Shunter  took  the  boy  in  his  arms  and  carried 
him  away  from  the  goods  yard  as  he  would  have  carried  a 
baby. 

"Leave  the  bawsket  at  No.  12  when  you  come  off  duty," 
he  called  back  to  the  first  subordinate. 

"Right,  Job,  I  will,"  said  the  first  subordinate  rather 
respectfully,  and  then  as  the  Foreman  Shunter  passed  out  of 
hearing,  the  first  subordinate  said  to  his  mate,  "Fancy  taking 
a  thing  like  that  'ome  to  your  missus." 

In  the  meantime  the  boy  was  shivering  and  whimpering 
in  what  he  felt  to  be  the  strong  arms  of  the  police. 

"Let  me  go,  mister,  this  once,"  he  whined  as  awful  recol- 
lections surged  upon  him.  He  had  been  getting  terribly 
hurt  all  through  the  night,  but  he  knew  that  he  was  going 
to  be  hurt  still  more  now  that  the  police  had  got  hold  of  him. 

But  his  faint  whimpers  and  half-hearted  wriggles  were 
without  effect  upon  the  majesty  of  the  law. 

"Lie  still.  Keep  quiet,"  growled  the  Foreman  Shunter, 
adding  as  quite  an  impersonal  afterthought,  "Blast  you!" 

It  seemed  a  very  long  time  to  the  boy  before  he  came  to 
prison.  Up  one  strange  street  and  down  another  he  was 
carried.  As  he  lay  in  the  arms  of  the  police  he  could  make 
out  lamp  after  lamp  and  row  after  row  of  houses  in  the 
darkness. 

It  was  a  long  way  to  the  station. 

"Let  me  go  this  once,  mister,"  he  began  to  whine  again. 
"I'll  not  do  it  no  more." 

"Quiet,  blast  you,"  growled  the  large,  rich  voice  of  the 
police. 

15 


THE  SAILOR 

At  last  they  came  to  a  door,  which  in  the  uncertain  light 
seemed  exactly  similar  to  one  he  had  passed  through  on  an 
occasion  he  would  never  forget  to  his  dying  day.  He  began 
to  cry  again  miserably.  Perhaps  they  would  give  him  some- 
thing to  eat — they  did  so  before — but  he  would  not  be  able 
to  eat  anything  this  time  if  they  offered  it,  not  until  they  had 
done  what  they  had  to  do. 

He  could  hear  sounds  a  little  way  off  ...  inside  the 
prison.  He  gripped  convulsively  the  rough  overcoat  of  his 
captor.  How  vividly  he  remembered  it  all!  They  gave  it 
two  other  boys  first.  Again  he  could  hear  their  screams, 
again  he  could  see  the  blood  running  down  their  bare  le^s. 

He  must  try  to  be  a  man  ...  he  remembered  that  one 
of  the  other  boys  had  laughed  about  it  afterwards  ...  he 
must  try  to  be  a  man  ...  at  least  that  had  been  the  advice 
of  a  fatherly  policeman  in  spectacles  who  had  presided  over 
the  ceremony.  .  .  . 

"Mother  .  .  .  that  you  .  .  ."  The  terrific  voice  of  his 
captor  went  right  through  him.  "Where  are  you,  Mother? 
Show  a  light." 

Suddenly  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  passage  was  flung  open. 
There  came  a  blinding  gush  of  gaslight. 

"Why,  Job  .  .  .  whatever  .  .  .  !" 

"I'll  set  him  on  the  sophy." 

"Yes,  on  the  sophy.    Goodness  gracious  me!" 

The  boy  realized  that  he  was  on  a  horsehair  sofa,  and 
that  a  fine,  clean,  handsome-looking  lady  was  standing  with 
her  mouth  open  in  front  of  him. 

"Goodness  gracious,  Job!" 

"Come  all  the  way  from  Blackhampton  in  a  truck  this 
morning.  By  the  5 140  Express." 

"Well,  I'm  blessed  if  I  ever  see  such  a  hobject.    I'll  give 
him  some  tea  and  a  bit  o'  bacon,  and  some  bread  and  butter, 
and  then  I'll  get  some  o'  that  mud  off  him." 
16 


THE  SAILOR 

"Some  of  it's  blood,"  said  the  Foreman  Shunter. 

"Yes,  I  see  it  is.  Never  ...  did  ...  I  ...  see  ... 
anythink  .  .  .  like  him.  I'll  make  the  tea;  the  kettle's  boil- 
ing." The  voice  of  Mother  was  the  nearest  thing  to  music 
the  boy  had  ever  heard.  It  was  better  even  than  that  of 
the  ladies  who  sang  in  the  bar  of  the  Wheat  Sheaf,  the  Red 
Lion,  and  the  Crown  and  Anchor,  outside  which  places  he 
had  always  stayed  to  listen  when  he  could  conveniently  do 
so.  This  room  was  not  in  the  least  like  the  police  station. 
And  he  was  quite  sure  that  the  lady  called  Mother  had  noth- 
ing whatever  to  do  with.  .  .  . 

"Set  him  a  bit  nearer  to  the  fire,  Job," — yes,  the  voice 
•was  music — "and  put  this  round  him." 

"This"  was  an  old  coat. 


VI 


I'LL  give  it  him  in  a  saucer,"  said  Mother.     "It'll  be 
cooler  that  way." 
A  saucer  of  tea  was  offered  to  the  boy. 
"Can  you  hold  it,  me  lad?" 
"Yes,  lady,"  he  said,  faintly. 

"Lap  it  up,  then.  Better  let  me  try  it  first."  She  sipped 
a  little  out  of  the  saucer.  "Yes,  that's  right  enough." 

The  tea  was  so  perfectly  delicious  that  he  swallowed  it  at 
a  gulp.  Mother  and  the  Foreman  Shunter  watched  him  with 
surprise. 

"Now  for  a  bite  o'  bread  and  butter,"  said  Mother,  sawing 
away  at  a  quartern  loaf. 

The  boy  seized  the  bread  and  butter  like  a  hungry  dog. 
Mother  and  the  Foreman  Shunter  stood  looking  at  him  with 
queer,  rather  startled  faces. 

"I  never  see  the  likes  o'  that,  Job." 
17 


THE  SAILOR 

"No,  never,"  said  the  Foreman  Shunter,  solemnly.  "Damn 
me." 

"What's  your  name,  boy?" 

"Enry  Arper,  lady." 

"Enry  what?" 

"Enry  Arper,  lady." 

"Could  you  eat  a  bit  o'  bacon,  do  you  think?" 

The  boy  nodded  with  an  eagerness  that  made  the  Foreman 
Shunter  laugh. 

"I  see  nothing  to  laugh  at,  Job  Lorimer,"  said  his  wife 
sharply.  Tears  had  come  into  her  eyes.  She  whisked  them 
away  with  a  corner  of  her  apron,  and  then  gave  a  sniff 
of  remarkable  violence.  "And  they  call  this  a  Christian 
land." 

"You  never  heard  me  call  it  that,  Mother,"  said  the  Fore- 
man Shunter. 

"More  shame  to  you,  then,  Job  Lorimer." 

"I  know  this,"  said  the  Foreman  Shunter,  speaking  in  a 
slow  and  decisive  manner,  "whatever  this  country  is  or 
whatever  it  ain't,  there's  as  much  Christianity  in  it  as  there 
is  in  that  hearthrug.  And  there  ain't  a  bit  more." 

"Shut  your  head,"  said  his  wife.  "And  hand  me  that 
knife  and  I'll  cut  up  this  bit  o'  bacon  for  him." 

She  took  a  delicately  browned  rasher  out  of  a  hissing, 
delicious  smelling  frying-pan  on  the  fire,  cut  it  into  very 
small  pieces,  gave  it  to  the  boy,  and  told  him  to  eat  it 
slowly. 

After  the  boy's  wants  had  been  attended  to,  Mother 
spread  a  newspaper  on  the  sofa  and  told  him  to  put  up  his 
legs  and  rest  a  bit.  The  Foreman  Shunter  then  passed 
through  a  door  and  performed  wonders  in  the  way  of  blow- 
ing and  splashing  at  the  scullery  sink.  When  he  reappeared 
his  face  was  very  red  and  shining  and  the  boy  was  fast  asleep. 

"I'm  thinking  I'll  have  a  bite  meself,"  said  Job,  with 
18 


THE  SAILOR 

a  glance  at  the  sofa.  "And  then  I  suppose  I  had  better  take 
him  along  to  the  police  station." 

Mother  made  no  reply,  but  gave  her  husband  a  breakfast 
worthy  of  a  foreman  shunter.  She  then  examined  carefully 
the  boy's  hands  and  feet. 

"I  never  did  see  such  a  hobject,"  said  she.  And  then 
with  an  imperious  air,  "I'll  give  him  a  wash,  that's  what 
Til  do." 

In  order  to  carry  out  this  resolve,  she  went  into  the  scul- 
lery, filled  the  copper,  and  lit  the  fire. 

Presently  the  members  of  the  family,  three  small  boys 
and  a  smaller  girl,  came  down  to  breakfast  en  route  to 
school.  They  looked  wonderingly  at  the  creature  on  the 
sofa,  with  great  curiosity  in  their  half  frightened  eyes.  Their 
father  told  them  sternly  to  keep  away  from  it,  to  get  on  with 
their  breakfasts,  not  to  make  a  noise,  and  to  clear  off  to 
school. 

"Is  it  a  boy  or  a  girl?"  Alfie  asked  Johnnie,  in  a  thrilling 
whisper  as  soon  as  father  had  retired  to  help  Mother  in  the 
scullery. 

"A  girl,  o'  course." 

There  was  some  excuse  for  Johnnie:  there  was  something 
that  looked  exactly  like  a  girl  in  the  sleeping  face.  The  rest 
was  hidden  by  the  coat. 

The  family  was  soon  packed  off  to  school,  Johnnie  "with 
a  flea  in  his  ear"  for  having  cleaned  his  boots  imperfectly 
the  night  before.  Mother  then  cleared  away  the  remains  of 
breakfast,  and  the  Foreman  Shunter  fetched  a  fair-sized  zinc 
bath  out  of  the  washhouse,  pushed  back  the  table,  and  set 
it  down  before  the  fire.  He  filled  it  with  warm  water  from 
the  copper,  and  then  gave  the  sleeper  a  shake  and  said, 

"Now,  then,  boy." 

The  boy  roused  himself  with  a  little  whimper  of  protest. 
He  had  not  been  very  fast  asleep;  the  police  in  varying 
19 


THE  SAILOR 

forms  of  their  activity  were  still  hovering  round  the  out- 
skirts of  his  mind.  He  began  to  cry  miserably  at  the  sight  of 
the  zinc  bath,  which  supplied  a  forgotten  link  in  an  awful 
chain  of  memories.  Yes,  this  was  the  police  station  after 
all.  He  remembered  now  quite  well  how  they  gave  him  a 
bath  before  they  .  .  . 

"What  are  you  crying  for?"  asked  Mother.  "I'm  not 
going  to  hurt  you,  my  boy.  Nice  warm  bath.  Bind  up  your 
feet.  Then  you  can  go  to  sleep  again." 

Perhaps  it  wasn't  the  police  station,  after  all.  Certainly 
that  institution  as  he  knew  it  had  no  Mother  and  no  warm 
tea  and  no  fried  bacon,  and  no  sofa  and  no  old  coat. 

Mother  removed  the  filthy  shirt  and  the  tattered  knicker- 
bockers with  uncompromising  but  not  indelicate  hands. 

"Them  had  better  be  burnt,  Job,"  she  said  sharply,  as 
she  gave  them  to  the  Foreman  Shunter  to  throw  into  the 
back  yard. 

"Better  ha'  done  this  job  in  the  scullery,  Mother,"  said  he. 

"Too  cold.  .  .  ."  She  took  the  temperature  of  the  bath 
with  an  expert's  finger.  ...  "I  never  did  see  anything  like 
this  poor  child.  There's  nothing  to  him.  Look  at  his  ribs. 
You  can  count  'em.  Ugh!"  The  eye  of  Mother  had  been 
arrested  by  a  broad  red  mark  across  both  thighs. 

"That's  been  done  with  a  whip,"  said  the  Foreman  Shun- 
ter, grimly. 

"Just  look  at  those  feet  .  .  .  they  are  beginning  to  bleed 
again.  And  these  pore  hands.  I'll  get  some  rags  and  some 
Friar's  Balsam.  And  his  hair !  Goodness  gracious  me !  I'll 
have  to  go  to  the  chemist's  for  that,  I'm  thinking." 

It  was  perfectly  true  that  Mother  had  to  pay  a  visit  to 
the  chemist  for  the  boy's  hair.  Nothing  less  than  the  chemist 
could  meet  the  case. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Foreman  Shunter  soaped  and  washed 
the  boy  thoroughly,  dried  him  with  a  coarse  towel,  rubbed 
20 


THE  SAILOR 

the  Friar's  Balsam  on  the  mutilated  hands  and  feet,  which 
made  them  smart  horribly,  and  bound  them  in  clean  rags. 
Mother  then  returned  to  perform  wonders  with  the  chemist's 
lotion.  Afterwards  she  fetched  a  nightgown  of  Alfie's,  put 
it  on  the  boy,  wrapped  him  up  in  a  couple  of  blankets,  and 
made  him  comfortable  on  the  sofa,  and  the  Foreman  Shunter 
drew  it  a  bit  nearer  the  fire.  Then  the  boy  was  told  he  could 
sleep  as  long  as  he  liked.  Presently  he  began  to  doze,  his 
mind  still  running  on  the  police;  but  certainly  this  was  not 
a  bit  like  the  station. 


VII 


WHAT'LL  you  do  with  him,  Mother?" 
It  was  tea  time,  the  kitchen  blind  was  down, 
the  gas  was  lit;  and  mother  was  toasting  a  muffin 
for  the  Foreman  Shunter,  who  was  about  to  go  on  duty. 

"He  can't  stay  here,  you  know.  We've  as  many  as  we 
can  manage  already." 

"I  know  that,"  snapped  Mother. 

Like  most  mothers  who  are  worth  their  salt,  she  had  rather 
a  habit  of  snapping  at  the  Foreman  Shunter. 

The  boy  was  feeling  wonderfully  comfortable.  In  fact, 
he  had  never  felt  so  comfortable  in  his  life.  And  he  was 
just  sufficiently  awake  to  know  that  his  fate  was  being 
decided  upon. 

"What'll  you  do  with  him,  anyhow?" 

"I   don't  know,"  snapped   Mother. 

"I  djon't  neither.  Seems  to  me  there's  nothing  for  it 
but  to  hand  him  over  to  the  police." 

The  boy  was  fully  awake  now.  His  heart  stood  still.  It 
seemed  an  age  before  mother  spoke  in  answer  to  this  terrible 
suggestion. 

"Yes,  of  course,  there's  always  that,"  she  said,  at  last. 
21 


THE  SAILOR 

The  boy's  heart  died  within  him. 

"He  can't  stay  here,  that's  a  moral,"  said  the  Foreman 
Shunter. 

"I  never  said  he  could,"  snapped  Mother.  "But  I  don't 
hold  with  the  police  myself.  It  means  the  Work'us,  and 
you'd  better  not  be  born  at  all,  Job  Lorimer,  than  go  to  the 
Work'us." 

"You  are  right  there,"  said  the  Foreman  Shunter. 

"He  wants  a  honest  occipation,"  said  Mother,  buttering 
the  muffin. 

"He  wants  eddicatin'  first,"  said  the  Foreman  Shunter, 
beginning  to  eat  the  muffin.  "What  can  you  do  with  a  kid 
like  that?  Don't  know  A  from  a  bull's  foot.  Not  fit  for 
any  decent  society." 

"You  are  right  there,"  said  Mother.  "But  I'm  all  against 
the  Work'us,  and  it's  no  use  purtending  I  ain't." 

"Same  here,"  said  the  Foreman  Shunter.  "But  he  can't 
stay  at  No.  12,  Gladstone  Villas,  and  you  can  lay  to  that." 

"Did  I  say  he  could?"  snapped  Mother  yet  again. 

"Very  well,  then." 

And  the  Foreman  Shunter  went  on  duty. 

It  took  five  days  for  the  famille  Lorimer  to  decide  the  fate 
of  Henry  Harper.  Five  wonderful  days  in  which  he  lay  most 
of  the  time  wrapped  in  warm  blankets  on  a  most  comfortable 
sofa  in  a  warm  room.  Everybody  was  remarkably  good  to. 
him.  He  had  the  nicest  things  to  eat  and  drink  that  had  ever 
come  his  way;  he  was  spoken  to  in  the  only  kind  tones  that 
had  ever  been  used  to  him  in  all  his  thirteen  years  of  life. 
He  was  given  a  clean  shirt  of  Alfie's  without  a  single  hole  in 
it;  he  was  given  a  pair  of  Johnnie's  socks;  a  pair  of  the  Fore- 
man Shunter's  trousers  were  cut  down  for  him ;  he  was  given 
boots  (Alfie's),  a  waistcoat  (Alfie's),  a  jacket  (Alfie's),  a 
necktie  (Johnnie's),  a  clean  linen  collar  (Alfie's),  a  red- 
spotted  handkerchief  (Percy's — by  Percy's  own  request). 

22 


THE  SAILOR 

In  fact,  in  those  five  days  he  was  by  way  of  being  taken 
to  the  bosom  of  the  family. 

He  was  really  a  very  decent  sort  of  boy — at  least,  Father 
said  so  to  Mother  in  Johnnie's  hearing.  That  is,  he  had  the 
makings  of  a  decent  boy.  And  Johnnie  knew  that  if  Father 
said  so  it  must  be  so,  because  Johnnie  also  knew  that  Father 
was  an  extremely  acute  and  searching  critic  of  boys  in  general. 

They  were  all  very  sorry  for  him,  and  Alfie  and  Percy  were 
also  inclined  to  be  sorry  for  Johnnie,  who  had  made  a  regu- 
lar mug  of  himself  by  declaring  that  this  poor  street  arab 
was  a  girl.  It  would  take  Johnnie  at  least  a  year  to  live  it 
down,  but  in  the  meantime  they  were  full  of  pity  for  this 
miserable  waif  out  of  the  gutter  who  could  neither  write  nor 
read,  who  tore  at  his  food,  who  called  Mother  "lady"  and 
Father  "mister,"  and  said  "dunno"  and  used  strange  terms 
of  the  streets  in  a  way  they  could  hardly  understand.  This 
poor  gutter-snipe,  who  had  been  so  badly  knocked  about,  who 
had  never  had  a  father  or  a  mother,  or  a  brother  or  a  sister, 
was  whole  worlds  away  from  the  fine  assurance,  the  com- 
plete freedom  and  security  of  Selborne  Street  Higher  Grade 
Schools.  He  was  more  like  a  dumb  animal  than  a  boy;  and 
sometimes  as  they  watched  his  white,  hunted  face  and  heard 
his  strange  mumblings — the  nearest  he  got,  as  a  rule,  to 
human  speech — it  would  have  taken  very  little  to  convince 
them  that  such  was  the  case,  could  they  only  have  forgotten 
that  his  like  was  to  be  found  at  every  street  corner  selling 
matches  and  evening  papers  and  begging  for  coppers  when 
the  police  were  not  about. 

During  those  five  days  the  boy's  future  was  a  sore  problem 
for  the-  Foreman  Shunter  and  his  wife.  And  it  was  only 
solved  at  last  by  a  god  out  of  a  machine.  Mr.  Elijah  Hen- 
dren  wras  the  deity  in  question. 

That  gentleman  happened  to  look  in  upon  the  evening 
of  the  fatal  fifth  day.  A  benign,  cultivated  man  of  the  world, 
23 


THE  SAILOR 

he  came  regularly  once  a  week  to  engage  the  Foreman  Shun- 
ter in  a  game  of  draughts.  It  was  also  Mr.  Hendren's  cus- 
tom on  these  occasions  to  smoke  a  pipe  of  bacca  and  to  give 
expression  to  his  views  upon  things  in  general,  of  which 
from  early  youth  he  had  been  an  accomplished  critic. 

Mr.  Hendren,  it  seemed,  had  a  relation  by  marriage  who 
followed  the  sea.  He  was  a  rough  sort  of  man,  in  Mr.  Hen- 
dren's opinion  not  exactly  what  you  might  call  polished. 
Still,  he  followed  a  rough  sort  of  trade,  and  this  was  a 
rough  sort  of  boy,  and  Mr.  Hendren  didn't  mind  having  a 
word  with  Alec — the  name  of  the  relation — and  see  what 
could  be  done  in  the  matter. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mother.  "They  might 
ill-use  him,  and  he's  been  ill-used  more  than  enough  al- 
ready." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Mr.  Hendren  politely,  "huffing"  the 
Foreman  Shunter.  "Quite  so,  M'ria" — Mr.  Hendren  was  a 
very  old  friend  of  the  family — "I  quite  agree  with  you  there. 
The  sea's  a  rough  trade — rough  an'  no  mistake — Alec  can 
tell  you  tales  that  would  make  your  hair  rise — but  as  I  say, 
he's  a  rough  boy — and  even  the  'igh  seas  is  better  than  the 
Work'us." 

"Anything  is  better  than  that,"  said  Mother.  "All  the 
same,  I  wouldn't  like  the  poor  child  to  be  knocked  about. 
You  see,  he's  not  very  strong;  he  wants  building  up,  and 
he's  been  used  that  crool  by  somebody  that  he's  frit  of  his 
own  shadow." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Hendren  impressively.  Impressiveness 
was  Mr.  Hendren's  long  suit.  At  that  time,  he  was  perhaps 
the  most  impressive  man  under  sixty  in  Kentish  Town. 
"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Hendren,  "I  quite  understand,  M'ria.  I'll 
speak  to  Alec  the  first  thing  tomorrer  and  see  what  he  can  do. 
Not  to  be  knocked  about — but  the  sea's  the  sea,  you  quite 
understand  ?" 

24 


THE  SAILOR 

"My  great-uncle  Dexter  sailed  twelve  times  round  the 
Horn,"  said  Mother  with  modesty. 

"Did  he  so?"  said  Mr.  Hendren.  "Twelve  times.  Before 
the  mast?" 

"Before  the  mast?"  was  a  little  too  much  for  Mother, 
as  Mr.  Hendren  intended  it  to  be,  having  no  doubt  a  repu- 
tation to  keep  up. 

"I  don't  know  about  afore  the  mast,"  said  Mother  stoutly. 
"I  only  know  that  great-uncle  Dexter  was  terrible  rough 
.  .  .  terrible  rough." 

"All  sailors  is  terrible  rough,"  said  Mr.  Hendren,  po- 
litely "huffing"  the  Foreman  Shunter  again.  "Still,  M'ria, 
I'll  see  what  I  can  do  with  Alec  .  .  .  although,  mind  you, 
as  I  say,  Alec's  not  as  much  polish  as  some  people." 

"Great-uncle  Dexter  hadn't  neither,"  said  Mother. 
"Foulest-mouthed  man  I  ever  heard  in  my  life  .  .  .  and 
that's  saying  a  good  deal."  And  Mother  looked  volumes  at 
the  Foreman  Shunter. 

"That  so?"  said  Mr.  Hendren,  tactfully,  crowning  his 
second  king.  "However  .  .  .  I'll  see  Alec  .  .  .  first  thing 
tomorrer.  .  .  ." 

"Thank  you,  'Lijah,"  said  the  Foreman  Shunter. 


VIII 

ALEC'S"  real  name  was  Mr.  Thompson.     He  was  a 
very  hirsute  man,  with  whiskers  all  over  him,  and 
at  first  sight  he  seemed  to  bear  a  very  striking  re- 
semblance to  his  arboreal  ancestors  of  the  largest  and  most 
terrifying  species.     His  distinguished  relation,  upon  intro- 
ducing him  in  the  course  of  the  next  evening  to  the  family 
circle  of  No.  12,  Gladstone  Villas,  seemed  not  in  the  least 
proud  of  him,  and  to  tell  the  truth  about  Mr.  Thompson, 
25 


THE  SAILOR 

he  did  appear  to  be  lacking  in  the  graces  of  the  town.  His 
rough  pea-jacket  and  huge,  ungainly  limbs,  his  gruff  voice 
and  gibbon-like  aspect  might  all  have  been  forgiven  on  the 
ground  of  his  calling,  but  unfortunately  he  began  by  ex- 
pectorating with  really  extraordinary  freedom  and  vehemence 
into  the  kitchen  fire,  and  from  that  moment  it  was  quite 
impossible  for  Mother  or  any  other  responsible  person  to 
render  Mr.  Thompson  in  terms  of  the  higher  humanity. 
This  was  a  pity,  because  Mr.  Thompson  had  evidently 
a  range  of  private  qualities. 

Truth  to  tell,  Mother  did  not  take  to  Mr.  Thompson  as 
kindly  as  she  might  have  done,  and  it  needed  all  Mr.  Hen- 
dren's  tact,  which  was  very  remarkable  even  for  one  who 
was  "wholesale,"  to  enable  her  to  have  any  truck  with 
"Alec"  at  all. 

"You  must  be  reasonable,  M'ria,"  said  Mr.  Hendren, 
urbanely.  "It's  either  the  Work'us  for  this  boy  or  it's  the 
'igh  seas.  If  it's  the  latter,  you  couldn't  have  a  better  man 
than  Alec  to  look  after  him;  if  it's  the  former,  of  course  I 
wash  my  hands  of  the  matter." 

This  flawless  logic  was  strongly  approved  by  the  Foreman 
Shunter. 

"  'Lijah  speaks  to  the  p'int,"  he  affirmed,  with  a  rather 
doubtful  glance  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Thompson,  who  was 
again  expectorating  into  the  fire  with  a  display  of  virtuosity 
that  was  almost  uncanny. 

In  the  meantime,  the  boy  stood  white  and  trembling  in 
the  midst  of  Johnnie  and  Alfie  and  Percy  while  his  fate  hung 
in  the  balance.  Not  one  of  these  had  taken  kindly  to  Mr. 
Thompson,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  at  frequent  intervals  the 
admired  Mr.  Hendren  assured  their  father  and  mother  that 
"he  was  a  first-rate  seaman." 

"Now,  this  is  the  crux  of  the  matter,"  said  Mr.  Elijah 
Hendren,  bringing  in  the  word  "crux"  as  though  he  well 
26 


THE  SAILOR 

knew  it  was  only  "wholesale"  people  who  were  allowed  to 
use  such  a  word  at  all.  "Either  the  boy  goes  to  sea  with 
Alec,  and  he  couldn't  have  no  better  to  take  charge  of  him — 
Alec's  a  first-rate  seaman — else  he  goes  to  the  Work'us. 
Now,  my  boy,  which  is  it  to  be  ?"  And  Mr.  Hendren  fairly 
hypnotized  the  poor  waif  in  father's  trousers  cut  down  with 
the  large  and  rolling  eye  of  an  accepted  candidate  for  the 
honorary  treasurership  of  the  Ancient  Order  of  Hedgehogs. 

"Now,  me  lad,  which  is  it  to  be?"  Mr.  Hendren 's  fore- 
finger wagged  so  sternly  that  the  boy  began  to  weep  softly. 
"Alec'll  not  eat  you,  you  know.  If  he  says  he'll  see  you 
through,  he'll  see  you  through.  Am  I  right,  Alec?" 

"Yep,"  growled  Alec,  beginning  to  threaten  a  further  as- 
sault upon  the  kitchen  fire. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Hendren.  "There  you  are. 
What  can  you  ask  fairer?  You  can  either  go  with  Alec — 
Mr.  Thompson  to  you,  my  boy — else  you  can  be  handed 
over  to  the  police,  and  they'll  send  you  to  the  Work'us. 
Now,  boy,  which  is  it  to  be?"  Mr.  Hendren  put  the  ques- 
tion with  awful  impressiveness.  "It's  a  free  country,  you 
know.  You  can  take  your  choice:  Alec — Mr.  Thompson — 
or  the  Work'us?" 

If  Henry  Harper  had  had  a  doubt  in  his  mind  as  to 
which  was  the  less  grim  of  these  alternatives,  the  casual  men- 
tion of  the  police  undoubtedly  laid  it  at  rest.  Mr.  Thompson 
looked  capable  of  eating  a  boy  of  his  age,  but  after  all  that 
was  very  little  compared  with  what  the  police,  as  Henry 
Harper  knew  them,  took  a  pride  in  doing  in  the  ordinary 
discharge  of  their  functions. 

"I'll  go  wiv  'im,  mister,"  said  Henry  Harper,  in  sudden 
desperation. 

He  then  hid  himself  behind  his  friend  Johnnie. 

"With  Mr.  Thompson?" 

"Yes,  mister." 

3  27 


THE  SAILOR 

Henry  Harper  began  to  sob,  and  Alfie  and  Percy  at  least 
didn't  blame  him.  Mr.  Thompson  was  the  nearest  thing  to 
the  wicked  ogre  in  "Jack  and  the  Beanstalk"  they  had  ever 
seen  in  their  lives. 

However,  their  mother  who  had  the  heart  of  a  lion,  who 
was  afraid  of  nothing  so  long  as  it  was  human — and  even 
Mr.  Thompson  was  apparently  that — took  upon  herself  to 
have  a  little  serious  discourse  with  the  man  of  the  sea. 

"I  suppose,  Mr.  Thompson,  this  is  a  decent  ship  to  which 
you  will  be  taking  the  poor  child?"  said  she. 

It  was  necessary  for  Mr.  Thompson  to  roll  his  eyes  fear- 
fully before  he  could  do  justice  to  such  a  leading  question. 
He  was  then  understood  to  say  in  his  queer,  guttural  voice, 
which  seemed  to  come  out  of  his  boots,  that  the  ship  was 
right  enough,  although  a  bit  hungry  at  times  as  all  ships 
were. 

"Is  the  captain  of  the  vessel  a  gentleman?"  demanded 
Mother  at  point-blank  range. 

Mr.  Thompson  was  understood  to  say  that  when  the  Old 
Man  was  all  right  he  was  all  right,  but  when  in  drink  he  was 
a  devil. 

"All  men  are,"  said  Mother,  succinctly.  "That's  the 
worst  of  it.  But  I  understand  you  to  say  that  at  ordinary 
times  the  captain's  a  gentleman." 

"Yep,"  said  Mr.  Thompson,  comprehensively. 

In  spite,  however,  of  this  valuable  testimonial  to  the 
captain's  character  and  status,  Mother  seemed  very  loath 
to  put  her  trust  in  him  or  in  Mr.  Thompson  either.  For 
one  thing  that  admirable  seaman  expectorated  again  into  the 
kitchen  fire,  but  that  apart,  the  note  of  primeval  extrava- 
gance in  his  outward  aspect  hardly  commended  itself  to 
Mother. 

"The  child  is  very  young,"  she  said,  "to  be  going  to  sea. 
And  you  sailors  has  rough  ways — my  great-uncle  Dexter 
28 


THE  SAILOR 

always  said  so.  And  he  was  a  rough  man  if  you  like — not  as 
rough  as  you  are,  Mr.  Thompson,  but  still  he  was  rough. 
And  as  I  say,  the  boy  is  not  grown  yet,  there's  nothing  to 
him,  as  you  might  say;  still,  as  it's  you,  Mr.  Thompson,  or 
the  Work'us,  I  suppose  it'll  have  to  be  you." 

"Quite  so,  M'ria,"  interposed  Mr.  Hendren  with  marked 
urbanity. 

"Now  you  quite  understand,"  said  Mother.  "Mr.  Thomp- 
son, I  hold  you  responsible  for  this  boy.  You'll  be  good 
to  him,  and  stand  his  friend,  and  teach  him  seafaring  ways, 
and  you'll  see  that  nobody  ill-uses  him.  You'll  promise  that 
now,  Mr.  Thompson.  This  boy's  delicate,  and  as  I  say,  he's 
already  been  knocked  about  so  crool,  he's  frit  of  his  own 
shadow." 

Mr.  Thompson  promised  with  becoming  solemnity  that  he 
would  see  no  harm  came  to  the  boy.  Thereupon  he  seemed 
to  go  up  a  little  in  Mother's  estimation.  Moreover,  he  sud- 
denly took  an  odd  fancy  to  Johnnie.  He  produced  a  foreign 
penny  from  his  pea-jacket,  offered  it  to  Johnnie  and  asked 
him  what  he  thought  of  it,  and  he  seemed  so  gratified  that 
Johnnie — who  had  about  as  much  imagination  as  the  leg  of 
a  chair — was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  him,  that  he  told 
Johnnie  to  keep  the  penny,  and  then  he  fairly  took  away  the 
breath  of  everybody,  Mother  included,  by  promising  magnifi- 
cently to  bring  Johnnie  a  parrot  from  the  West  Indies. 

Even  Mr.  Elijah  Hendren  was  impressed  by  this  princely 
offer  on  the  part  of  his  kinsman  by  marriage. 

"He's  rough,  o'  course,"  whispered  Mr.  Elijah  Hendren 
to  the  Foreman  Shunter,  "but  he  means  it  about  the  parrot. 
That's  the  kind  o'  man  he  is,  although,  mind  you,  I  don't  say 
he's  polished." 

Whatever  doubts  might  have  been  entertained  for  the 
future  of  Henry  Harper,  the  parrot  somehow  seemed  to 
soften  them.  Even  Mother  feh  that  to  express  misgiving 
29 


THE  SAILOR 

after  that  would  be  in  bad  taste.  Mr.  Thompson  promised 
that  he  would  see  the  old  man  in  the  course  of  the  mor- 
row, as  the  Margaret  Carey  had  to  sail  on  Friday,  but  he 
had  no  doubt  it  would  be  all  right  as  they  never  minded  a 
boy  or  two.  And  then  the  Foreman  Shunter  sent  Johnnie  to 
the  end  of  the  street  for  a  quartern  of  rum,  as  there  was 
only  beer  in  the  house,  and  that  mild  beverage  \vas  not  the 
slightest  use  to  a  sailor. 

Johnnie  walked  on  air.  At  every  shop  window  he  came 
to  he  stopped  to  examine  his  foreign  penny.  But  what  was 
that  in  comparison  with  a  real  live  parrot  all  the  way  from 
the  West  Indies  ?  That  night,  Johnnie  was  the  happiest  boy 
in  Kentish  Town.  He  slept  with  the  foreign  penny  under 
his  pillow,  and  his  dreams  were  of  unparalleled  magnificence. 

And  on  the  sofa  in  the  kitchen  below,  tossed  and  dozed  the 
unhappiest  boy  in  Kentish  Town.  He  had  escaped  the  police 
by  a  miracle,  he  was  quit  of  Auntie,  he  was  free  of  the  selling 
of  matches,  but  tomorrow  or  the  day  after  he  was  leaving 
the  only  friends  he  had  ever  known.  As  for  the  sea  and 
Mr.  Thompson  and  the  Margaret  Carey,  there  was  some 
subtle  but  deadly  instinct  in  him  that  had  warned  him  al- 
ready. There  would  be  no  Mother  to  wash  him  and  bind  his 
wounds,  or  to  give  him  fried  bacon  and  see  that  he  came 
to  no  harm. 

Twice  he  woke  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  sweating  with 
fear,  and  wildly  calling  her  name. 


IX 


THE  next  day  it  rained  incessantly  from  morning  till 
night,  and  there  was  just  a  faint  hope  in  the  boy's 
mind  that  it  might  prevent  Mr.  Thompson  coming  to 
fetch  him.    He  clung  desperately  to  this  feeble  straw,  because 
30 


THE  SAILOR 

it  was  the  only  one  he  had,  but  he  was  not  such  a  fool  as 
to  think  that  Mr.  Thompson  was  the  kind  of  man  who  stays 
at  home  for  the  weather.  Therefore  it  did  not  surprise 
him  at  all  when  he  was  solemnly  told  that  evening  about 
six  o'clock,  just  after  he  had  had  his  tea,  that  Mr.  Thompson- 
had  come  for  him. 

Sure  enough  Mr.  Thompson  had.  Moreover,  he  had  come 
in  a  cab.  All  the  same,  he  managed  to  enter  the  kitchen  with' 
the  water  running  off  his  pea-jacket  on  mother's  spotless 
floor,  and  as  he  stood  blinking  fiercely  in  the  gas  light,  he 
looked  bigger  and  hairier  and  less  like  a  human  being  than 
ever. 

Henry  Harper's  one  instinct  was  to  take  a  tight  hold  of 
Mother's  apron.  And  this  he  did  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
Johnnie  and  Alfie  and  Percy  were  sitting  round  the  table, 
drinking  tea  and  eating  bread  and  jam.  Mother  told  Henry 
Harper  very  gently  he  must  be  a  man,  whereupon  he  did  his 
best  to  meet  Mr.  Thompson  boldly.  But  he  made  a  very 
poor  job  of  it  indeed. 

Mr.  Thompson,  whose  speech  could  only  be  followed  witK 
certainty  by  specialists,  was  understood  to  ask  whether  the 
boy's  sea  chest  was  ready. 

"He  has  only  the  clothes  he  stands  in,"  said  Mother, 
tardy. 

Mr.  Thompson  said  that  was  a  pity. 

The  boy  hadn't  even  an  overcoat,  and  Mother  decided  to 
give  him  quite  a  good  one  of  Johnnie's — Johnnie  bravely 
saying  he  didn't  mind,  although  he  minded  a  goodish  bit,  as 
he  was  rather  proud  of  that  particular  garment. 

"Your  father  will  buy  you  another,"  said  Mother.  "I 
couldn't  think  of  sending  any  boy  to  sea  without  an  over- 
coat." 

She  also  made  up  a  bundle  of  odds  and  ends  for  the  boy: 
a  flannel  shirt,  two  much-darned  pairs  of  drawers,  a  rather 


THE  SAILOR 

broken  pair  of  boots,  a  knitted  comforter,  and  a  pot  of 
marmalade.  She  then  gave  him  a  kiss  and  put  an  apple  into 
his  hand  and  told  him  to  be  a  good  boy,  and  then  he  was 
gone. 


HENRY  HARPER  followed  Mr.  Thompson  into  the 
cab  that  was  waiting  at  the  street  door.  He  sat  all 
alone  opposite  that  ogre  in  the  darkness,  holding  on 
desperately  to  the  bundle  and  the  apple  that  Mother  had 
given  him.  He  didn't  venture  to  speak;  he  hardly  ven- 
tured to  breathe  while  the  cab  rumbled  and  tumbled  through 
the  rain.  He  didn't  know  where  he  was  going.  He 
only  knew  that  he  was  going  to  sea,  and  he  didn't  even 
know  what  the  sea  was  like,  except  that  it  was  water 
and  people  got  drowned  in  it.  There  was  no  sea  at  Black- 
hampton. 

Mr.  Thompson  had  not  much  conversation.  This  may 
have  been  due  to  his  superior  rank,  or  because  he  was  one 
of  those  strong,  silent  men  who  prefer  actions  to  words  after 
the  manner  of  the  heroes  in  the  best  modern  romances. 
Not  that  the  boy  was  acquainted  with  any  of  these ;  he  could 
(neither  read  nor  write;  indeed,  it  was  quite  true  what  the 
Foreman  Shunter  had  said,  "that  he  didn't  know  A  from  a 
bull's  foot,"  although,  of  course,  that  was  speaking  figura- 
tively. 

Mr.  Thompson  sat  grim  and  silent  as  the  tomb.  But 
suddenly,  by  the  light  of  a  passing  lamp,  the  boy  saw  his 
right  hand  enter  his  pocket  and  come  out  with  a  large  clasp 
knife  in  it.  This  he  opened  at  his  leisure.  And  then  all  at 
once  a  wave  of  terror  swept  over  Henry  Harper.  This  man 
was  Jack  the  Ripper. 

That  famous  person  was  then  at  his  zenith.  He  had 
32 


THE  SAILOR 

lately  committed  his  fourth  horrible  murder  in  Whitechapel. 
The  boy  knew  that  as  an  undoubted  fact,  because  he  had 
cried  the  crime  in  the  streets  of  Blackhampton,  and  had  sold 
out  twice  in  an  hour.  Moreover,  he  knew  as  a  fact — ex- 
tremely well  informed  contemporaries  had  told  him — that 
Jack  the  Ripper  was  a  sailor. 

It  was  no  use  attempting  to  struggle  or  cry  out.  Besides, 
he  was  now  paralyzed  with  terror.  The  only  thing  there  was 
to  hope  for  was  that  the  Ripper  would  kill  him  before  he 
started  to  mutilate. 

They  passed  another  street  lamp,  and  the  boy  saw  thaf 
Mr.  Thompson  had  something  else  in  his  hand.  It  was  a 
fantastically  shaped  metal  case.  The  murderer  opened  it 
coolly  and  took  out  a  queer,  dark  looking  substance.  He  cut 
a  piece  off  with  his  knife,  put  it  in  his  mouth,  then  closed 
the  blade  and  returned  it  to  his  pocket.  The  boy  began  to 
tfreathe  again.  It  was  a  plug  of  tobacco. 

All  the  same,  Henry  Harper  knew  he  was  not  yet  out  of 
the  wood.  He  was  as  sure  as  he  was  sitting  in  a  four- 
wheeler — a  thing  he  had  never  done  before  in  his  life — that 
this  large  and  hairy  sailor  with  the  clasp  knife  was  the  mur- 
derer. Moreover,  as  he  cast  terrified  glances  through  the  wet 
windows  into  the  sodden  streets,  he  was  certain  this  was 
Whitechapel  itself.  Everything  looked  so  dark  and  mean 
and  sullen,  with  noisome  alleys  on  every  hand  and  hardly 
any  lamps  to  see  them  by,  that  full-grown  women,  let  alone 
boys  of  thirteen,  could  be  done  to  death  in  them  without 
attracting  the  police. 

It_was  not  a  bit  of  use  trying  to  escape.  Jack  the  Ripper 
would  cut  his  throat  if  he  moved  hand  or  foot.  The  best 
thing  he  could  do  was  to  keep  still.  That  was  all  very  well, 
but  he  was  sick  with  fear.  He  was  being  taken  into  the 
heart  of  Whitechapel  to  be  done  to  death  as  Mary  Ann 
Nichols  and  Catherine  Morton — he  was  always  very  good 
33 


THE  SAILOR 

at  remembering  names — and  the  other  victims  had  been.  He 
was  familiar  with  all  the  details;  they  had  been  enormously 
discussed;  there  wasn't  a  newsboy  in  Blackhampton  who 
hadn't  his  own  private  theory  of  these  thrilling  crimes. 
For  instance,  Henry  Harper  himself  had  always  maintained 
that  the  sailor  was  a  big  sailor,  and  that  he  had  a  black 
beard.  He  had  little  thought  a  week  ago  when  he  had  pre- 
sented this  startling  theory  to  young  Arris  with  a  certain 
amount  of  intellectual  pride  that  he  would  so  soon  be  in 
a  position  to  prove  it. 

They  came  to  some  iron  gates.  The  cab  stopped  under 
a  lamp.  Mr.  Thompson  put  his  head  out  of  the  window.  If 
the  boy  had  not  been  petrified  with  terror  now  would  have 
been  his  chance.  But  he  couldn't  move. 

The  Ripper  began  to  roar  like  a  bull  at  some  unseen 
presence,  and  soon  the  gates  moved  back  and  the  cab  moved 
on.  And  then  about  a  minute  later,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  the  boy  saw  the  mast  of  a  ship.  He  knew  it  was  a  ship. 
He  had  seen  pictures  in  shop  windows.  There  was  one  shop 
window  in  particular  he  frequented  every  Friday  evening, 
which  always  displayed  the  new  number  of  the  'Lustrated 
London  News  and  the  'Lustrated  London  News  was  greav 
on  ships.  This  was  a  kind  of  glorified  canal  boat  with 
masts,  but  according  to  the  'Lustrated  London  News,  and 
there  could  be  no  higher  authority,  it  was  undoubtedly  a 
ship. 

In  his  excitement  at  seeing  it,  he  nearly  forgot  who  was 
sitting  opposite.  Perhaps  he  wasn't  going  to  be  mutilated  in 
Whitechapel  after  all.  There  might  be  yet  a  chance;  the 
murderer  had  not  again  taken  his  knife  out  of  his  pocket. 
But  suddenly  another  special  edition  flashed  through  his 
memory:  "  'Orrible  crime  on  the  'Igh  Seas.  Revolting 
Details."  And  then  he  knew  that  he  was  being  decoyed  to 
the  high  seas,  in  order  thajt  this  man  could  work  his  will 
34 


THE  SAILOR 

upon  him  at  his  leisure  in  circumstances  of  unspeakable 
ferocity. 

The  cab  stopped  again.  Mr.  Thompson  opened  the  door 
and  got  out.  It  was  still  raining  very  hard.  There  was  a 
lamp  close  by,  and  the  boy  could  see  the  water  falling  in  long, 
stealthy,  narrow  rods.  The  murderer  told  him  roughly  to 
come  out.  He  came  out  at  once.  Had  he  had  the  pluck  of 
a  mouse,  he  would  have  run  for  it.  But  he  was  quaking 
and  trembling,  his  knees  were  letting  him  down. 

The  driver  of  the  cab,  a  grotesque  in  an  oilskin  cape  with 
a  hat  to  match  it,  dragged  a  large  wooden  box  tied  round 
with  cord  off  the  roof  of  his  machine  and  with  the  help  of 
its  owner  lowered  it  to  the  ground.  By  the  time  this  was 
done  there  came  out  of  the  darkness  three  or  four  strange 
men,  who  moved  with  the  stealth  of  those  used  to  the  night. 
They  gathered  round  the  box  and  its  owner  with  humble 
offers  of  their  assistance. 

The  boy's  first  thought  was  that  these  scarecrows  were 
confederates  of  the  eminent  murderer.  But  this  theory  was 
soon  shattered.  At  any  rate,  if  confederates  they  were,  Mr. 
Thompson  seemed  to  have  little  use  for  them  at  the  moment. 
Without  a  word  of  warning  he  suddenly  ran  boot  first  at  one 
of  these  wretches  and  sent  him  spinning  into  the  mud.  The 
man  fell  with  a  howl  and  rose  with  a  curse,  and  then  made 
off  into  the  darkness  muttering  imprecations,  in  the  wake  of 
.his  companions  who  had  disappeared  already. 

The  boy  could  only  feel  that  murderers  of  Mr.  Thomp- 
son's class  act  according  to  their  tastes  in  these  little  matters ; 
but  the  cabman  was  rather  impressed.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  stand  out  for  "eight  and  a  kick,"  but  he  now  took 
what  was  given  him  without  a  word.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  was  given  five  shillings,  which  was  considerably  under 
his  legal  fare,  but  he  did  not  venture  to  question  Mr.  Thomp- 
son's arithmetic.  He  moved  off  at  once,  but  proceeded  to 
35 


THE  SAILOR 

take  it  out  of  his  wretched  horse  as  soon  as  he  got  through 
the  dock  gates. 

In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Thompson  was  left  standing  beside 
his  sea  chest  in  the  rain,  and  Henry  Harper  stood  beside  it 
also,  convulsively  clutching  in  one  hand  the  bundle  Mother 
had  made  up  for  him  and  in  the  other  the  apple  she  had 
given  him. 

Should  he  run  for  it?  What  was  the  use?  All  at  once 
Mr.  Thompson  shouldered  his  sea  chest  with  an  air  of  quiet 
ferocity,  and  growled  something  that  sounded  like,  "Git 
forrard,  bye." 


XI 


EXPECTING  to  be  kicked  Into  the  sea  if  he  didn't 
do  as  he  was  told,  the  boy  got  forrard  at  once.  Mr. 
Thompson  and  his  sea  chest  followed  close  upon  his 
heels.  Henry  Harper  crossed  a  couple  of  crazy  planks  with 
water  lying  far  down  underneath  them,  Mr.  Thompson  and 
his  sea  chest  always  just  behind  him,  and  then  to  his  won- 
der and  dismay  he  suddenly  realized  that  he  was  on  the  deck 
of  a  ship. 

He  hadn't  time  to  take  his  bearings,  or  to  make  out  at 
all  clearly  what  the  deck  of  a  ship  was  like,  before  he  was 
descending  a  ladder  into  total  darkness  which  smelled  like  a 
sewer.  A  nigger  with  rings  in  his  ears  came  forward  with 
a  light,  and  Mr.  Thompson  asked  if  the  Old  Man  was  in 
the  cabin,  and  the  nigger  said,  "Yessah." 

Mr.  Thompson  led  Henry  Harper  to  the  cabin,  which  was 
a  kind  of  room,  about  twelve  feet  by  ten,  miserably  lit  by  a 
single  dirty  oil  lamp.  Here  the  smell  of  sewage  that  pervaded 
the  vessel  was  rather  genteelly  mingled  with  an  odor  of  rum. 
The  Old  Man  was  in  the  cabin  right  enough.  He  was  not 
a  very  prepossessing  old  man  to  look  at;  to  begin  with,  he 
36 


THE  SAILOR 

hardly  looked  old  at  all.  He  was  just  a  rough,  middle-aged 
seaman,  with  a  sodden,  half-savage  face,  with  a  peculiar  light 
in  it  that  somehow  reminded  the  boy  of  Auntie  when  she  had 
been  to  the  public.  It  might  almost  have  been  taken  for 
humor,  had  not  humor  some  little  reputation  as  a  Christian 
quality. 

"Bye,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Thompson,  briefly. 

"Bye,"  said  the  Old  Man,  with  equal  brevity.  He  then 
passed  half  a  bloodshot  eye  over  the  shrinking  figure  in 
Johnnie's  overcoat  and  father's  trousers  cut  down,  and  said, 
"Git  forrard,  bye,"  in  a  tone  that  no  boy  of  judgment  would 
ever  hesitate  for  a  single  moment  to  obey. 

Henry  Harper  got  forrard  at  once,  although  he  didn't 
know  where.  He  found  his  way  out  of  the  cabin  somehow, 
and  made  ahead  for  a  light  that  was  suspended  in  an  iron 
bracket.  Under  this  he  stood  a  moment  trying  to  collect 
himself,  or  as  much  of  himself  as  he  had  managed  to  bring 
aboard  the  ship,  when  Mr.  Thompson  came  along  and  led 
him  through  various  queer  sorts  of  passages  and  up  a  flight 
of  stairs  to  a  place  which  he  called  the  cook's  galley. 

The  cook,  a  fearful  looking  Chinaman,  received  Henry 
Harper  with  a  scowl,  which,  however,  was  merged  at  once  in 
an  extreme  servility  towards  Mr.  Thompson  who  was  clearly 
a  person  of  high  consequence  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey. 
In  deference  to  Mr.  Thompson's  wishes,  the  cook,  whose; 
name  was  Sing,  showed  the  boy  a  sort  of  small  manhole  be- 
tween the  copper  and  the  galley  stairs  where  he  could  put 
his  gear,  and  also  where  he  could  creep  in  and  rest  whenever 
his  duties  permitted. 

"All  snuggee,"  said  Sing,  with  an  ingratiating  grin  for 
the  exclusive  benefit  of  Mr.  Thompson.  Moreover,  still 
further  to  impress  Mr.  Thompson  with  his  humanity,  Sing 
kindly  presented  the  boy  with  a  piece  of  moldy  biscuit  and 
a  couple  of  scraps  of  broken  meat.  Mr.  Thompson,  having 
37 


THE  SAILOR 

formally  started  Henry  Harper  on  his  career,  withdrew. 
Sing  resumed  his  scowl  and  pointed  to  an  inverted  bacon  box 
on  which  his  new  assistant  could  sit  and  eat  his  supper. 

But  Henry  Harper  found  very  little  in  the  way  of  ap- 
petite. The  biscuit  was  so  hard  that  it  seemed  to  require  a 
chisel,  and  the  meat  so  salt  and  tough  that  any  expendi- 
ture of  jaw  power  was  unlikely  to  prove  a  profitable  invest- 
ment. There  still  remained  the  apple  that  Mother  had  given 
him.  But  not  for  a  moment  did  he  think  of  eating  that. 
It  would  have  been  sacrilege.  Mother  had  her  shrine  al- 
ready in  his  oddly  impressionable  mind.  No  matter  how 
long  he  might  live,  no  matter  where  his  wanderings  might 
take  him,  he  never  expected  to  come  across  such  a  being 
again.  He  wrapped  the  apple  reverently  in  Percy's  red- 
spotted  handkerchief.  He  would  always  keep  that  apple  in 
order  that  he  might  never  forget  her. 

Sing,  like  Mr.  Thompson,  was  not  a  great  hand  at  con- 
versation. Nevertheless,  he  had  his  share  of  natural  curiosity. 
His  wicked  little  yellow  eyes  never  left  the  boy's  face.  He 
seemed  unable  to  make  up  his  mind  about  him,  but  what 
sort  of  a  mind  it  was  that  he  had  to  make  up  greatly  puzzled 
and  perplexed  Henry  Harper,  who  had  only  once  seen  a 
real  live  Chinaman  before,  and  that  was  through  the  open 
door  of  the  worst  public  in  Blackhampton.  Sing  looked 
capable  of  anything  as  he  sat  scowling  and  smoking  his 
pipe,  but  it  was  a  subtler  and  deeper  sort  of  capability  than 
the  sheer  Jack-the-Ripperishness  of  Mr.  Thompson.  It  was 
reasonably  certain  that  Mr.  Thompson  would  be  content 
with  a  knife,  although  he  might  do  very  fearful  things  with 
it  in  moments  of  ecstasy;  with  Sing  there  might  be  every 
sort  of  horror  known  to  the  annals  of  crime. 

After  Sing  had  gazed  in  silence  at  Henry  Harper  for  about 
an  hour,  he  pointed  to  the  manhole,  which  meant  that  the 
boy  had  better  get  to  bed.  Henry  Harper  took  the  hint  as 
38 


THE  SAILOR 

quickly  as  possible,  not  in  the  least  because  he  wanted  to  get 
to  a  bed  of  that  kind,  but  because  the  Chinaman  seemed  of 
a  piece  with  Mr.  Thompson  and  the  Old  Man.  Implicit 
obedience  was  still  the  only  course  for  a  boy  of  judgment. 
Those  wicked  little  yellow  eyes,  about  the  size  of  a  pig's, 
held  a  promise  he  dared  not  put  into  words.  Henry  Harper 
had  still  a  morbid  dread  of  being  hurt,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  been  hurt  so  often. 

With  a  heart  wildly  beating,  he  crawled  into  the  manhole 
and  he  knew  at  once,  oversensitive  as  he  was,  that  it  was 
full  of  things  that  crept.  He  shuddered  and  nearly  screamed, 
but  fear  of  the  Chinaman  restrained  him.  It  was  so  dark  in 
that  chasm  between  the  copper  and  the  galley  stairs  that  he 
couldn't  see  his  hand  when  he  held  it  in  front  of  him;  also 
it  was  so  hot,  in  spite  of  the  cold  November  rain  he  had 
left  in  the  good  and  great  world  outside  this  death  trap, 
that  he  could  hardly  breathe  at  first;  yet  as  soon  as  he  had 
got  used  to  the  temperature  he  took  off  Johnnie's  overcoat 
and  wrapped  his  face  in  it  in  order  to  prevent  unknown 
things  crawling  over  it. 

He  didn't  cry  himself  to  sleep.  Tonight  he  was  too  far 
gone  for  tears.  If  only  he  had  had  a  bit  of  pluck  he  would 
have  chosen  the  police.  The  thing  they  did  was  awful,  but 
after  all  it  could  not  compare  with  a  'orrible  crime  on  the 
'igh  seas.  The  police  did  one  thing  sure  and  you  knew  the 
worst — but  there  were  a  thousand  ways  of  murder,  and  very 
likely  more  for  Jack  the  Ripper  and  a  Chinaman. 

He  hardly  dared  to  breathe,  indeed  was  scarcely  able  to 
do  so,  with  Johnnie's  overcoat  covering  his  eyes  and  mouth. 
But  even  as  he  lay  gasping  in  a  sweat  of  fear,  there  was  just 
one  thing,  and  the  only  one  he  had  to  which  to  cling.  And 
he  clung  to  it  desperately.  It  was  the  sacred  apple  he  had 
had  the  luck  to  wrap  in  the  red-spotted  handkerchief  which* 
Percy  had  given  him. 

39 


THE  SAILOR 

Sleep  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Something  was  racing 
Sand  hammering  upon  his  brain.  After  a  lapse  of  time  which 
seemed  like  hours,  but  was  only  twenty  minutes  in  point  of 
|fact,  he  began  to  understand  that  this  turmoil  had  a  definite 
meaning.  An  idea  was  being  born. 

When  at  last  it  burst  upon  his  mind  it  was  nothing  very 
remarkable.  "Henry  Harper,  you  must  find  your  way  out 
of  this  before  it's  too  late.  Never  mind  the  police.  You 
must  find  your  way  out  of  this,  Henry  Harper." 

He  took  Johnnie's  overcoat  from  his  face  and  sat  up  and1 
listened.  It  was  absolutely  pitch  dark.  At  first  there  was 
not  a  sound.  Then  he  thought  he  could  detect  a  gentle 
scratching,  a  noise  made  by  a  rat  near  his  head.  But  he 
could  hear  nothing  of  the  Chinaman.  No  doubt  he  had  gone 
to  bed.  The  boy  rose  with  stealthy  care,  and  well  it  was  that 
he  did,  otherwise  he  would  have  hit  his  head  against  the 
under  side  of  the  galley  stairs. 

It  was  so  dark  that  he  couldn't  see  the  opening  from  the 
manhole  into  the  galley  itself.  But  he  found  it  at  last  and 
climbed  out  cautiously.  The  lamp  in  the  galley  had  gone 
out;  there  was  not  a  glimmer  of  light  anywhere.  He  had 
no  knowledge  of  the  Chinaman's  whereabouts,  he  could  not 
find  the  opening  which  led  into  the  other  parts  of  the  ship. 
He  groped  about  as  noiselessly  as  he  could,  hoping  to  avoid 
the  one  and  to  find  the  other,  and  then  suddenly  there  came 
a  truly  terrible  sound.  He  had  put  his  foot  on  the  China- 
man's face. 

He  heard  the  Chinaman  get  up  in  his  rage ;  he  even  knew 
where  he  was  although  it  was  too  dark  to  see  him.  His 
heart  stood  still;  the  Chinaman  was  feeling  for  him  in  the 
darkness;  and  then  he  was  obliged  to  feel  himself  for  the 
Chinaman  in  order  to  avoid  him. 

Suddenly  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  light.  He  ran  towards 
it  not  knowing  what  else  to  do.  But  in  almost  thy  same 
40 


THE  SAILOR 

moment  the  Chinaman  had  seen  it  too,  and  also  had  seen 
him  go.  Near  the  light  was  a  ladder  which  ascended  to  some 
unknown  region.  The  boy  raced  up  the  ladder  with  the 
Chinaman  upon  his  heels.  As  soon  as  he  got  to  the  top  the 
sharp,  wet  air  caught  his  face.  He  was  on  the  deck.  He 
dashed  straight  ahead ;  there  was  no  time  for  any  plan.  The 
Chinaman  was  at  the  top  of  the  ladder  already  and  trying 
to  catch  him  by  the  leg. 

Running  like  mad,  the  boy  gained  a  yard  or  two  along 
the  deck.  But  he  had  no*  real  chance  of  escape,  for  he  had 
not  the  least  notion  of  his  bearings  or  of  the  hang  of  the 
ship.  And  luck  did  not  favor  him  at  all.  Suddenly  he 
tripped  over  an  unseen  obstacle  and  fell  heavily,  and  then 
the  Chinaman  came  down  on  him  with  both  knees,  fastening 
fingers  upon  his  throat. 

He  was  not  able  to  cry  out,  the  Chinaman  saw  to  that. 
But  if  Sing  was  going  to  kill  him,  he  could  only  hope  it 
would  be  soon.  This,  however,  was  not  the  cook's  intention. 
He  merely  led  Henry  Harper  back  to  the  galley  by  the  ear, 
gave  his  arm  a  ferocious  twist  which  made  the  boy  gasp, 
and  then  sent  him  flying  head-first  into  the  stifling  darkness 
of  the  manhole  with  the  help  of  a  well-timed  boot.  The  boy 
pitched  in  such  a  way  that  he  was  half  stunned,  and  when 
at  last  he  came  fully  to  himself  light  wTas  creeping  through 
a  tiny  chink  in  the  manhole,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  morn- 
ing. Also  he  knew  by  the  curious  lapping  sound  made  by 
the  waves  under  the  galley  stairs  that  the  ship  was  already 
at  sea. 

XII 

YES,  it  was  true,  the  ship  was  already  at  sea.    He  was 
lost.    And  hardly  was  there  time  for  his  mind  to  seize 
this  terrible  thought  when  the  Chinaman  looked  into 
the  manhole.    As  soon  as  he  saw  the  boy  was  sitting  up,  a 
41 


THE  SAILOR 

broad  grin  came  on  his  face  and  he  beckoned  him  out  with 
a  finger. 

The  boy  obeyed  at  once,  and  tumbled  unsteadily  into  the 
galley.  But  as  soon  as  he  tried  to  stand  on  his  legs  he  fell 
^down.  The  Chinaman  with  a  deep  smile  pointed  to  the 
"bacon  box,  and  the  boy  sat  on  it,  and  then  tried  as  well  as  he 
vcould  to  prevent  his  head  from  going  round. 

.Luckily,  for  the  time  being,  the  Chinaman  took  no  fur- 
'ther  notice  of  Henry  Harper,  but  set  about  the  duties  of 
the  day.  It  was  nearly  six  bells  of  the  morning  watch,  and 
he  had  to  serve  breakfast  for  the  crew.  This  consisted 
partly  of  a  curious  mixture  that  was  boiling  in  the  copper, 
which  was  called  wet  hash,  and  wTas  esteemed  as  a  luxury, 
and  partly  of  an  indescribable  liquid  called  coffee,  which  was 
brewed  out  of  firewood  or  anything  that  came  handy,  and 
was  not  esteemed  as  anything  in  particular  by  the  most  catho- 
lic taste. 

Long  before  the  boy's  head  had  done  spinning  six  bells 
was  struck,  and  the  members  of  the  crew  came  into  the  galley 
with  their  pannikins.  There  were  sixteen  all  told,  excluding 
the  Old  Man  and  the  superior  officers,  of  whom  Mr.  Thomp- 
son was  the  chief.  Henry  Harper's  breath  was  taken  away 
by  the  sight  of  this  wolfish  looking  lot.  He  had  seen  dis- 
tinguished members  of  the  criminal  classes  massed  around 
the  Judge's  carriage  at  the  Assizes  at  Blackhampton,  just 
for  old  sake's  sake  as  it  were,  and  to  show  that  they  still 
took  a  friendly  interest  in  the  Old  Cock ;  but  these  were  tame 
and  rather  amateurish  sort  of  people  compared  with  the 
crew  of  the  Margaret  Carey. 

As  a  body  of  seamen  the  crew  of  the  Margaret  Carey  was 
undoubtedly  "tough."  Dagoes,  Yanks,  Dutchmen  and  a 
couple  of  not  very  "white"  Britishers;  they  came  into  the 
galley,  one  after  another,  took  up  their  pannikins  of  wet  hash, 
and  as  soon  as  they  saw  and  smelled  it,  told  Mr.  Sing  what 
42 


'A  nigger  with  rings  in  his  ears  came  forward  with  a  light." 


THE  SAILOR 

they  thought  of  him  in  terms  of  the  sea.  Henry  Harper 
was  chilled  to  the  marrow.  He  was  still  seated  on  the  bacon 
box,  his  head  was  still  humming;  but  he  seemed  to  remem- 
ber that  Auntie,  even  on  Saturday  nights,  when  she  came 
home  from  the  public,  was  not  as  these. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  the  boy  was  still  alive.  At 
first  he  was  so  dreadfully  ill  that  his  mind  was  distracted 
from  other  things.  And  as  he  did  not  lack  food  as  soon  as 
he  could  eat  it,  body  and  soul  kept  together  in  a  surprising 
way. 

He  was  still  in  great  dread  of  the  Chinaman  and  of  the 
nights  of  torment  in  the  crawling  darkness  of  the  manhole 
under  the  galley  stairs.  But  he  kept  on  doing  his  job  as 
well  as  he  could ;  he  took  care  to  be  alert  and  obliging  to 
whoever  crossed  his  path;  he  tried  his  honest  best  to  please 
the  Chinaman  by  saving  him  as  much  trouble  as  possible, 
thus  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  not  only  his  life  was  intact,  but 
also  his  skin. 

The  truth  was  he  was  not  a  bad  sort  of  boy  at  all.  For 
one  thing  he  was  as  sharp  as  a  needle:  the  gutter,  Dame 
Nature's  own  academy,  had  taught  him  to  be  that.  He  never 
had  to  be  told  a  thing  twice.  Also  he  was  uncommonly 
shrewd  and  observant,  and  he  very  soon  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  business  of  his  life  must  be  to  please  the 
Chinaman. 

In  this  task  he  began  to  succeed  better  than  he  could 
have  hoped.  Sing,  for  all  his  look  of  unplumbed  wickedness, 
did  not  treat  him  so  badly  as  soon  as  he  began  to  make 
himself  of  use.  For  one  thing  he  got  a  share  of  the  best 
food  that  was  going,  the  scraps  from  the  cabin  table,  and 
this  was  a  very  important  matter  for  one  of  the  hungriest 
boys  aboard  one  of  the  hungriest  ships  athwart  the  seas. 

In  the  course  of  the  third  week,  Henry  Harper  began  to 
buck  up  a  bit.  His  first  experience  of  the  motions  of  a  ship 
4  43 


THE  SAILOR 

at  sea  had  made  him  horribly  unwell.  As  night  after  night 
he  lay  tossing  and  moaning  as  loudly  as  he  dared  in  the 
stifling  darkness  between  the  boiler  and  the  galley  stairs, 
without  a  friend  in  the  world  and  only  an  unspeakable  fate 
to  look  forward  to,  he  felt  many  times  that  he  was  going 
to  die  and  could  only  hope  the  end  would  be  easy. 

However,  he  had  learned  already  that  the  act  of  death' 
is  not  a  simple  matter  if  you  have  to  compass  it  for  yourself. 
Every  morning  found  him  limp  as  a  rag,  but  always  and 
ever  alive.  And  then  gradually  he  got  the  turn.  Each  day 
he  grew  a  little  stronger,  a  little  bolder,  so  that  by  the  end 
of  the  third  week  he  had  even  begun  to  feel  less  afraid  of  the 
Chinaman. 

In  the  middle  of  the  fourth  week,  he  had  a  bit  of  real 
luck.  And  it  came  to  him  in  the  guise  of  an  inspiration. 
It  was  merely  that  one  night  when  the  time  came  for  turn- 
ing into  that  stifling  inferno  which  he  still  dreaded  with  all 
his  soul,  he  literally  took  his  courage  in  his  hands.  He 
spread  Johnnie's  overcoat  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  galley 
itself,  made  a  pillow  of  the  bundle  that  Mother  had  given 
him,  and  then  without  venturing  a  look  in  the  direction  of 
the  Chinaman  very  quietly  lay  down  and  waited,  with  beat- 
ing heart,  for  the  worst. 

Strange  to  say,  the  worst  never  happened.  For  a  long 
time  he  expected  a  boot  in  his  ribs.  Every  nerve  was 
braced  to  receive  it.  But  the  slow  minutes  passed  and  no 
boot  came.  All  this  time  Sing  sat  on  the  bacon  box,  smoking 
solemnly,  and  taking  an  occasional  sip  of  grog  from  his 
pannikin.  And  then  suddenly  Henry  Harper  went  quite 
deliciously  to  sleep,  and  dreamed  that  he  was  in  the  West 
Indies,  and  had  caught  a  real  live  parrot  for  Johnnie. 

It  was  a  really  wonderful  sleep  that  he  had.  He  did  not 
wake  once  till  four  bells  struck  in  the  morning  watch,  the 
proper  time  for  starting  the  duties  of  the  day.  These  began 
44 


THE  SAILOR 

with  lighting  the  fire  and  filling  the  copper.  He  rose  from 
his  corner  a  new  boy,  and  there  was  Sing  lying  peacefully 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  not  taking  notice  of  anyone.  And 
the  odd  thing  was  that  during  the  day  Sing  showed  him  no 
disfavor;  and  when  night  came  and  it  was  time  once  more 
to  turn  in,  Henry  Harper  lay  down  again  in  the  corner  of 
the  galley.  There  was  now  no  need  to  await  the  arrival  of 
the  Chinaman's  boot. 

XIII 

THE  floor  of  the  galley  gave  Henry  Harper  his  first 
start  on  the  road  to  manhood.  He  got  so  far  along 
it  as  to  be  only  a  little  afraid  of  the  Chinaman.  But 
that  was  his  limit  for  some  little  time  to  come.  Meanwhile 
he  continued  in  the  punctual  discharge  of  his  duties,  and 
for  some  months  things  seemed  to  go  fairly  well  with  him. 
But  at  last  there  came  a  fatal  day  when  the  sinister  figure 
of  Mr.  Thompson  appeared  once  more  upon  the  scene.  The 
boy  was  told  briefly  and  roughly  that  the  ship  was  short- 
handed,  that  he  was  wanted  aft  at  once,  and  that  he  had 
better  take  his  truck  along  with  him. 

From  that  hour  the  current  of  his  life  was  changed.  For 
many  a  day  after  that  he  was  to  know  neither  peace  nor 
security.  He  had  been  called  to  bear  a  part  in  the  terrific 
fight  that  went  on  all  day  and  all  night,  between  this  crazy 
windjammer  and  the  forces  of  nature. 

For  days  and  weeks  the  brain  of  Henry  Harper  was  a 
confused  horror  of  raging  seas,  tearing  winds,  impossible 
tasks,  brutal  and  savage  commands.  He  did  his  best,  he 
kept  on  doing  it  even  when  he  didn't  know  what  he  was 
doing,  but  what  a  best  it  was!  He  was  buffeted  about  the 
slippery  decks  by  the  hand  of  man  or  the  hand  of  nature; 
he  understood  less  than  half  of  what  was  said  to  him,  and 
45 


THE  SAILOR 

even  that  he  didn't  know  how  to  set  about  doing.  The 
Margaret  Carey  was  so  ill  found  that  she  seemed  at  the 
mercy  of  the  great  gales  and  the  mighty  seas  of  the  At- 
lantic. She  was  flung  and  tossed  to  all  points  of  the  com- 
pass ;  her  decks  were  always  awash ;  her  furious  and  at  times 
half  demented  Old  Man  was  always  having  to  heave  her  to, 
but  Henry  Harper  was  never  a  hand's  turn  of  use  on  the 
deck  of  that  hell  ship. 

He  was  so  unhandy  that  in  the  port  watch  they  christened 
him  "Sailor."  There  wasn't  a  blame  thing  he  could  do. 
He  was  so  sick  and  sorry,  he  was  so  scared  out  of  his  life 
that  the  Old  Man  used  to  get  furious  at  the  mere  sight  of 
him. 

For  weeks  the  boy  hardly  knew  what  it  was  to  have  a 
whole  skin  or  a  dry  shirt.  The  terrible  seas  got  higher  and 
higher  as  they  came  nearer  the  Horn,  the  wind  got  icier,  the 
Old  Man's  temper  got  worse,  the  ship  got  crazier,  the  crew 
got  smaller  and  smaller  by  accidents  and  disease;  long 
before  Cape  Stiff  was  reached  in  mid-Atlantic  the  Margaret 
Carey  was  no  habitation  for  a  human  soul. 

Sailor's  new  berth  in  the  half-deck  was  always  awash. 
Every  time  he  turned  into  it  he  stood  a  good  chance  of  being 
drowned  like  a  rat  in  a  hole.  The  cold  was  severe.  He 
had  no  oilskins  or  any  proper  seaman's  gear,  except  a  pair 
of  makeshift  leggings  from  the  slop  chest.  Day  after  day 
he  was  soaked  to  the  skin,  and  in  spite  of  Johnnie's  overcoat 
and  all  the  clothes  in  the  bundle  Mother  had  given  him,  he 
could  seldom  keep  dry. 

Every  man  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey,  except  the  Ol'd 
Man  and  Mr.  Thompson,  and  perhaps  the  second  mate,  Mr. 
MacFarlane,  in  his  rare  moments  of  optimism,  was  convinced 
she  would  never  see  Frisco.  The  crew  was  a  bad  one.  Da- 
goes are  not  reckoned  much  as  seamen,  the  Dutchmen  were 
sullen  and  stupid,  none  of  the  Yankees  and  English  was 
46 


THE  SAILOR 

really  quite  white.  The  seas  were  like  mountains;  often 
during  the  day  and  night  all  available  hands  had  to  be  lit- 
erally fighting  them  for  their  lives. 

All  through  this  time  Henry  Harper  found  only  one  thing 
to  do,  and  that  was  to  keep  on  keeping  on.  But  the  wonder 
was  he  was  able  even  to  do  that.  Often  he  felt  so  weak  and 
miserable  that  he  could  hardly  drag  himself  along  the 
deck.  He  had  had  more  than  one  miraculous  escape  from 
being  washed  overboard.  His  time  must  come  soon  enough, 
but  he  could  take  no  step  to  bring  it  nearer,  because  he  felt 
that  never  again  would  he  be  able  to  arrange  the  matter  for 
himself.  Something  must  have  snapped  that  night  he  had 
waited  on  the  wrong  rail  for  the  engine.  Bowery  Joe,  the 
toughest  member  of  the  crew,  a  regular  down-east  Yankee, 
who  liked  to  threaten  him  with  a  knife  because  of  the  look 
on  his  face,  had  told  him  that  he  ought  to  have  been  born 
a  muddy  dago,  and  that  he  was  "short  of  sand." 

There  seemed  to  be  something  missing  that  others  of  his 
kind  possessed.  But  he  had  many  things  to  worry  about  just 
then.  He  just  kept  on  keeping  on — out  of  the  way  of  the 
Old  Man  as  well  as  he  could — out  of  the  way  of  the  fist 
of  the  second  mate — out  of  the  way  of  the  boots  and  the 
knives  of  all  and  sundry — out  of  the  way  of  the  raging, 
murderous  sea  that,  after  all,  was  his  only  friend.  The  time 
came  when  sheer  physical  misery  forced  him  to  be  always 
hiding  from  the  other  members  of  the  crew. 

One  morning  the  Old  Man  caught  him  skulking  below 
after  all  hands  had  been  piped  on  deck  to  get  the  canvas 
off  her.  The  Old  Man  said  not  a  word,  but  carried  him 
up  the  companion  by  the  nape  of  the  neck  as  if  he  had  been 
a  kitten,  brought  him  on  the  main  deck,  and  fetched  him 
up  in  the  midst  of  his  mates  at  the  foot  of  the  mast.  He 
then  ordered  him  aloft  with  the  rest  of  them. 

In  absolute  desperation  Sailor  began  to  climb.  He  knew 
47 


THE  SAILOR 

that  if  he  disobeyed  he  would  be  flung  into  the  sea.  Clinging, 
feet  and  claws,  like  a  cat,  for  the  sake  of  the  life  he  hadn't 
the  courage  to  lose,  he  fought  his  way  up  somehow  through 
the  icy  wind  and  the  icier  spray  that  was  ever  leaping  up 
and  hitting  him,  no  matter  how  high  he  went.  He  fought 
his  way  as  far  as  the  lower  yardarm.  Here  he  clung  help- 
less, dazed  with  terror,  faint  with  exhaustion.  Commands 
were  screamed  from  below,  which  he  could  not  understand, 
which  he  could  not  have  obeyed  had  he  understood  them, 
since  he  now  lacked  the  power  to  stir  from  his  perch.  His 
hands  were  frozen  stiff;  there  was  neither  use  nor  breath  in 
his  body;  the  motions  of  the  ship  were  such  that  if  he  tried 
to  shift  a  finger  he  would  be  flung  to  the  deck  he  could  no 
longer  see,  and  be  pulped  like  an  apple.  So  he  clung  fran- 
tically to  the  shrouds,  trying  to  keep  his  balance,  although  he 
had  merely  to  let  go  an  instant  in  order  to  end  his  troubles. 
But  this  he  could  not  do;  and  in  the  meantime  commands 
and  threats  were  howled  at  him  in  vain. 

"Come  down,  then,"  bawled  the  Old  Man  at  last,  beside 
himself  with  fury. 

But  the  boy  couldn't  move  one  way  or  the  other.  At  that 
moment  it  was  no  more  possible  to  come  down  than  it  was 
to  go  up  higher. 

They  had  to  roll  up  the  sails  without  his  aid.  After  that 
the  fury  of  the  wind  and  the  sea  seemed  to  abate  a  bit.  Per- 
haps this  was  more  Henry  Harper's  fancy  than  anything 
else;  but  at  least  it  enabled  him  to  gather  the  strength  to 
move  from  his  perch  and  slide  down  the  futtock  shrouds  to 
the  deck. 

The  Old  Man  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  foot  of  the 
mast.  He  took  him  by  the  throat. 

"One  o'  you  fetch  me  a  bight  o'  cord,"  he  roared  quietly. 
He  had  to  roar  to  make  himself  heard  at  all,  but  it  was  a 
quiet  sort  of  roar  that  meant  more  than  it  could  express. 
48 


THE  SAILOR 

He  was  promptly  obeyed  by  two  or  three.  There  was 
going  to  be  a  bit  of  fun  with  Sailor. 

Frank,  an  Arab  and  reckoned  nothing  as  a  seaman,  was 
the  first  with  the  cord,  but  Louis,  a  Peruvian,  was  hard  on 
his  heels.  The  boy  wondered  dimly  what  was  going  to 
happen. 

The  Old  Man  took  hold  of  his  wrists  and  tied  them  so 
tightly  behind  him  that  the  double  twist  of  cord  cut  into 
his  thin  flesh.  But  he  didn't  feel  it  very  much  just  then. 

The  next  thing  the  boy  knew  was  that  he  was  being 
dragged  along  the  deck.  Then  he  realized  that  he  was  being 
lashed  to  the  mizzen  fife-rail  while  several  of  the  crew  stood 
around  grinning  approvingly.  And  when  this  was  done  the}' 
left  him  there.  They  left  him  unable  to  sit  or  to  lie  down, 
or  even  to  stand,  because  the  seas  continually  washed  his 
feet  from  under  him.  There  was  nothing  to  protect  him 
from  the  pitiless  wind  of  the  Atlantic  that  cut  through  his 
wretched  body  like  a  knife,  or  the  yet  more  pitiless  waves 
that  broke  over  it,  soaking  him  to  the  skin  and  half  dash- 
ing out  his  life.  Mercifully  the  third  sea  that  came,  tower- 
ing like  a  mountain  and  then  seeming  to  burst  right  over 
him,  although  such  was  not  the  case,  left  him  insensible. 

He  didn't  know  exactly  how  or  when  it  was  that  he  came 
to.  He  had  a  dim  idea  that  he  was  very  slowly  dying  a 
worse  death  than  he  had  ever  imagined  it  was  possible  for 
anything  to  die.  It  was  a  process  that  went  on  and  on; 
and  then  there  came  a  blank;  and  then  it  started  again,  and 
he  remembered  he  was  still  alive  and  that  he  was  still  dying; 
and  then  another  blank;  and  then  there  was  something  alive 
quite  near  him;  and  then  he  remembered  Mother  and  tried 
to  gasp  her  name. 

When  at  last  Henry  Harper  came  to  himself  he  found  he 
was  in  the  arms  of  Mr.  Thompson.  The  Old  Man  with  the 
devil  in  his  eyes  was  standing  by;  all  around  the  Horn  he  had 
49 


THE  SAILOR 

been  drinking  heavily.     Mr.  MacFarlane,  Mr.  Petersen  thv 
third  mate,  and  some  of  the  others  were  also  standing  by. 

The  boy  heard  the  Old  Man  threaten  to  put  Mr.  Thomp- 
son in  irons,  and  heard  him  call  him  a  mutinous  dog.  Mr. 
Thompson  made  no  reply,  but  no  dog  could  have  looked 
more  mutinous  than  he  did  as  he  held  the  boy  in  his  arms. 
There  was  a  terrible  look  on  his  face,  and  Mr.  MacFarlane 
and  the  others  held  back  a  bit. 

It  chanced,  however,  that  there  was  just  one  thought  at 
the  back  of  the  Old  Man's  mind,  and  it  was  this  that 
saved  Mr.  Thompson,  also  the  boy  and  perhaps  the  ship. 
He  feared  no  man,  he  had  no  God  when  he  was  in  drink, 
and  he  didn't  set  much  store  by  the  devil  as  a  working  insti- 
tution ;  but  drunk  or  sober  he  was  always  a  first-rate  seaman 
and  he  cared  a  great  deal  about  his  ship.  And  he  knew 
very  well  that  except  himself  Mr.  Thompson  was  the  only 
first-rate  seaman  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey,  and  that  with- 
out his  aid  there  was  little  chance  of  the  vessel  reaching 
Frisco.  It  was  this  thought  at  the  back  of  the  Old  Man's 
mind  that  prevented  his  putting  Mr.  Thompson  in  irons. 

The  boy  lay  longer  than  he  knew,  hovering  much  nearer 
to  death  than  he  guessed,  in  Mr.  Thompson's  bunk,  with 
Mr.  Thompson's  spare  oilskins  over  him,  his  dry  blankets 
under  him,  and  Mr.  Thompson  moistening  his  lips  with  grog 
every  few  minutes  for  several  hours.  It  was  a  pretty  near  I 
go;  had  Henry  Harper  known  how  near  it  was  he  might 
have  taken  his  chance.  But  he  didn't  know,  and  in  the  course 
of  two  or  three  days  nature  and  Mr.  Thompson  and  per- 
haps a  change  in  the  weather  pulled  him  through. 

All  the  way  out  from  London  until  the  third  day  past 
the  Horn  the  weather  had  been  as  dirty  as  it  knew  how  to 
be;  and  it  knows  how  to  be  very  dirty  indeed  aboard  a 
windjammer  on  the  fifty-sixth  degree  of  latitude  in  the 
month  of  December,  which  is  not  the  worst  time  of  the  year. 
50 


THE  SAILOR 

But  it  suddenly  took  quite  a  miraculous  turn  for  the  better. 
The  wind  allowed  Mr.  Thompson  to  shift  the  course  of  the 
Margaret  Carey  a  couple  of  points  in  two  hours,  so  that 
before  that  day  was  out  the  old  tub,  which  could  not  have 
been  so  crazy  as  she  seemed  to  Henry  Harper,  was  running 
before  it  in  gala  order  with  all  her  canvas  spread. 

During  the  following  morning  the  sun  was  seen  for  the 
first  time  for  some  weeks,  and  the  port  watch  gave  it  a  cheer 
of  encouragement.  By  nightfall  the  wind  and  the  sea  were 
behaving  very  well,  all  things  considered,  and  they  shared 
the  credit  with  Mr.  Thompson  of  having  saved  the  life  of 
Henry  Harper. 

The  Old  Man's  temper  began  to  mend  with  the  weather. 
He  was  not  all  bad — very  few  men  are — it  was  merely  as 
Mr.  Thompson  had  said,  that  when  drink  was  in  him  he 
was  a  devil.  The  dirtier  the  weather  the  more  drink  there 
was  in  him,  as  a  rule.  When  the  sun  shone  again  and 
things  began  to  look  more  hopeful,  the  Old  Man's  temper 
improved  out  of  all  knowledge. 

The  Old  Man  set  such  store  by  seamanship  that  it  was 
the  one  quality  he  respected  in  others.  His  world  was  di- 
vided into  those  who  were  good  seamen  and  those  who  were 
not  good  seamen.  If  you  were  a  good  seaman  he  would  never 
forget  it  in  his  dealings  with  you;  if  you  were  not  a  good 
seaman,  whatever  else  you  might  be,  you  could  go  to  hell  for 
all  that  he  cared.  And  of  all  the  seamen  he  had  shipped 
in  the  course  of  a  pretty  long  experience  as  a  master  mariner, 
he  had  never,  in  his  own  judgment,  come  across  the  equal 
of  Mr.  Thompson.  This  was  his  fifth  time  round  the  Horn 
with  that  gentleman  as  mate,  and  each  voyage  increased  the 
Old  Man's  respect  for  his  remarkable  ability.  He  had  never 
seen  anything  better  than  the  style  in  which  the  mate  got  the 
old  ship  before  the  wind;  nothing  could  be  more  perfect 
than  the  way  she  was  moving  now  under  all  her  canvas ;  and 
51 


THE  SAILOR 

that  evening  in  the  cabin,  after  supper,  the  Old  Man  broached 
a  bottle  of  his  "pertickler"  and  decided  upon  some  little 
amende  to  the  mate  for  having  threatened  to  put  him  in 
irons. 

"That  bye  is  no  use  on  deck,"  he  said.  "He  had  better 
come  here  and  make  himself  useful  until  he  gets  stronger." 

The  Old  Man  meant  this  for  a  great  concession,  and  Mr. 
Thompson  accepted  it  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  offered. 
The  Old  Man  now  regarded  the  boy  as  part  and  parcel  of 
Mr.  Thompson's  property,  and  it  was  by  no  means  certain, 
such  is  the  subtle  psychology  of  active  benevolence,  that 
Mr.  Thompson  did  not  regard  the  boy  in  that  light  also.  At 
any  rate  the  boy  looked  on  the  mate  as  his  natural  protector. 
Henry  Harper  craved  for  someone  to  whom  he  could  render 
homage  and  obedience.  He  would  have  reverenced  the  Old 
Man  had  he  been  worthy  of  such  an  emotion;  as  it  was  he 
had  to  fall  back  on  the  mate,  a  rough  man  to  look  at,  and  a 
very  bad  one  to  cross,  but  one  to  whom  he  owed  his  life,  and 
the  only  friend  he  had. 

It  took  Henry  Harper  a  fortnight  to  get  fairly  on  his  legs 
again.  Then  he  was  able  to  come  on  deck  as  far  as  the  break 
of  the  poop.  Much  seemed  to  have  happened  to  the  world 
since  he  had  been  below.  He  found  the  sun  shining  glori- 
ously; there  was  hardly  a  puff  of  wind;  the  crew  in  high 
good  humor  were  cheerfully  mending  sails.  It  was  not  the 
same  ship,  it  was  not  the  same  sea,  it  was  not  the  same 
tvorld  he  had  left  a  long  fortnight  ago.  He  was  amazed 
and  thrilled.  The  slum-bred  waif  had  no  idea  that  any 
world  could  be  like  this.  Moreover,  the  convalescent  stage 
of  a  dangerous  illness  was  cleansing  and  renewing  him. 
For  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  born  he  forgot  the  bur- 
den of  his  inheritance.  He  was  suddenly  intoxicated  by  the 
extraordinary  majesty  and  beauty  of  the  universe. 

The  sea,  what  an  indescribably  glorious  thing!  The  sky 
52 


THE  SAILOR 

without  a  cloud  in  it !  He  had  never  seen  any  sky  at  Black- 
hampton  to  compare  with  this.  The  air,  how  clean  and 
bright  it  was!  The  mollymawks  with  their  beautiful  white 
breasts  were  skimming  the  green  water.  It  was  a  glorious 
world.  He  heard  a  dago  singing  at  his  work.  He  almost 
wanted  to  sing  as  well. 

He  got  a  needle  and  some  packthread  and  sat  down  on 
the  afterhatch  and  suddenly  made  up  his  mind  to  do  his 
best.  He  could  make  nothing  of  his  life,  or  of  his  circum- 
stances. His  wretched  body  was  all  sore  and  bruised  and 
broken ;  his  head  was  still  going  round  and  round ;  he  didn't 
know  what  he  was,  or  why  he  was,  or  where  he  was;  but  a 
very  glorious  earth  had  been  made  by  Somebody,  just  as  a 
very  miserable  thing  had  been  made  by  Somebody.  How- 
ever, let  him  keep  on  keeping  on. 

He  had  gone  too  far,  thus  early  in  life,  for  self-pity. 
Besides  there  was  too  much  happening  around  him,  too 
much  to  look  at,  too  much  to  do  to  think  very  deeply  about 
himself.  Yes,  it  was  a  very  wonderful  world.  The  sun 
began  to  warm  his  veins  as  he  sat  plying  his  needle,  such  a 
sun  as  he  had  never  known.  The  colors  all  around  were 
simply  marvelous;  blues  and  yellows,  greens  and  purples! 
There  was  nothing  at  Blackhampton  to  compare  with  them. 
The  dago  seated  near  had  set  down  his  needle,  had  dabbled 
his  hand  in  the  water,  had  begun  to  sing  louder  than  ever. 
Yes,  Blackhampton  was  not  to  be  compared  with  such  a 
world  as  this. 

For  the  next  three  weeks  things  began  to  go  a  bit  kinder 
for  Henry  Harper.  Each  day  grew  warmer,  more  gor- 
geous; there  was  no  wind  to  speak  of;  the  sea  became  so 
smooth  that  it  might  have  been  the  West  Norton  and  Bags- 
worth  canal.  And  as  it  was  clearly  realized  by  the  rest  of 
the  crew  that  for  some  mysterious  reason  Sailor  was  now 
under  the  extremely  powerful  protection  of  Mr.  Thompson, 

53 


THE  SAILOR 

they  were  careful  to  keep  their  hands  off  him,  and  also  their 
boots.  This  made  life  a  little  duller  for  them,  but  a  bit 
easier  for  Henry  Harper. 


XIV 

THREE  weeks  or  so  this  good  life  went  on.  Horror 
unspeakable  was  at  the  back  of  the  boy's  mind. 
There  were  things  he  could  never  forget  as  long  as 
life  lasted.  At  any  moment  they  might  return  upon  him; 
but  during  those  days  of  sun  and  calm  Henry  Harper  was 
in  an  enchanted  world.  It  was  so  warm  and  fair  that  he 
retrieved  Johnny's  overcoat  and  Mother's  bundle  from  his 
bunk  where  they  had  been  a  long  time  soaking,  spread  them 
on  the  deck  to  dry,  and  had  them  for  a  pillow  when  he  slept 
that  night  underneath  the  stars. 

But  the  good  days  were  soon  at  an  end.  Each  one  after 
the  twenty-second  got  hotter  and  hotter;  the  twenty-fourth 
was  quite  unpleasant ;  the  heat  on  the  twenty-seventh  became 
almost  unbearable.  They  were  now  in  the  doldrums  in  a 
dead  calm. 

"Shouldn't  wonder  if  we  find  trouble  before  we  get  to 
the  China  seas."  Thus  Mr.  MacFarlane,  the  second  mate,  a 
prophetic  Scotsman,  in  Henry  Harper's  hearing. 

Mr.  MacFarlane  was  right,  as  he  generally  was  in  these 
matters — more  so  perhaps  than  he  had  reckoned,  for  they 
managed  to  find  a  good  deal  of  trouble  before  they  got  to  the 
China  seas. 

For  several  days  there  was  no  stir  in  the  air.  The  heat 
grew  worse;  and  then  one  afternoon  it  suddenly  became 
very  dark,  without  any  apparent  reason.  Mr.  Thompson 
went  about  with  a  face  uglier  than  usual,  and  Mr.  Mac- 
Farlane said  they  were  cutting  straight  into  the  tail  of  a 
54 


THE  SAILOR 

typhoon;  and  then  there  was  an  anxious  consultation  with 
the  Old  Man  on  deck. 

Mr.  Thompson's  face  got  uglier  as  the  sky  got  darker, 
and  the  sea  became  like  a  mixture  of  oil  and  lead.  It  was 
almost  impossible  to  breathe  even  on  deck;  there  wasn't  a 
capful  of  air  in  the  sails  or  out  of  them;  all  the  crew  had 
their  tongues  out;  and  instead  of  eating  his  supper  that 
evening  the  Old  Man  opened  a  bottle  of  his  "pertickler." 

The  boy  turned  in  that  night,  in  the  new  berth  that  had 
been  found  for  him  by  Mr.  Thompson's  orders,  with  a  feel- 
ing that  something  was  going  to  happen.  For  one  thing  the 
Old  Man  looked  like  having  the  devil  in  him  again  before 
the  morning.  Moreover,  the  heat  was  so  intense  that  sleep 
seemed  out  of  the  question. 

However,  the  boy  fell  asleep  unexpectedly,  and  was 
presently  awakened  in  a  stifling  darkness  by  a  sudden  awful 
and  incredible  sound  of  rushing  and  tearing.  He  sat  up 
gasping  for  air  and  wondering  what  it  was  that  had 
happened. 

Afraid  to  stay  where  he  was,  for  it  was  certain  that  some- 
thing terrible  had  occurred,  he  got  out  of  his  bunk  and 
groped  his  way  as  well  as  he  could  through  the  darkness, 
and  at  last  made  his  way  on  deck.  Here  it  was  as  black  as 
it  was  below ;  all  the  lights  were  out ;  the  sky  was  like  pitch  ; 
the  sea  could  not  be  seen ;  but  he  knew  at  once  the  cause  of 
the  tearing  and  rushing.  It  was  the  wind. 

The  wind  was  blowing  in  a  manner  he  would  not  have 
thought  to  be  possible.  Its  fury  was  stupendous.  It  was 
impossible  to  stand  up  in  it,  therefore  he  did  the  only  thing 
that  he  could:  he  lay  down. 

Some  time  he  lay  on  the  deck,  unable  to  move  forward  a 
yard,  or  even  to  return  whence  he  came,  such  was  the  press- 
ure that  held  him  down.  Then  it  was  he  felt  a  new  kind  of 
terror.  This  was  more  than  physical,  it  seemed  beyond  the 
55 


THE  SAILOR 

mind  of  man.  They  had  had  high  winds  and  fierce  storms 
at  Blackhampton,  but  never  had  he  known  or  guessed  that 
there  could  be  a  thing  of  this  kind.  Such  a  wind  was  out- 
side nature  altogether.  It  seemed  to  be  tearing  the  ship  into 
little  bits. 

Several  times  he  tried  to  rise  to  his  feet  in  the  darkness 
and  find  his  way  below,  but  it  was  no  use.  Flesh  and  blood 
could  not  stand  an  instant  against  such  a  rage  as  that.  And 
then  as  he  lay  down  again  full  length,  clutching  the  hot  deck 
itself  for  safety,  he  began  to  wonder  why  no  one  else  was 
about.  Slowly  the  truth  came  to  him,  but  not  at  first  in  a 
form  in  which  he  could  recognize  or  understand  it.  It 
seemed  to  creep  upon  him  like  a  nightmare.  All  the  crew 
and  Mr.  Thompson  and  the  Old  Man  had  been  blown  over- 
board, and  he  was  drifting  about  the  world,  a  strange  unbe- 
lievable world,  alone  on  the  ship. 

He  began  to  shriek  with  terror.  Yet  he  didn't  know  that. 
It  was  not  possible  to  hear  the  sound  of  his  own  voice.  He 
lay  writhing  on  the  deck  in  a  state  of  dementia.  A  caveman 
caught  and  soused  by  his  first  thunderstorm  could  not  have 
been  more  pitiable.  He  was  alone,  in  this  unknown  sea,  in 
this  endless  night,  with  all  eternity  around  him. 

Again  he  tried  to  rise  from  the  deck,  but  he  was  still  held 
down,  gasping  and  choking,  by  a  crushing  weight  of  wind. 
It  would  be  a  merciful  thing  if  the  ship  went  to  the  bottom. 
But  even  if  it  did  his  case  might  be  no  better.  Then  came 
the  thought  that  this  was  what  had  happened.  The  ship 
had  foundered,  and  this  tempest  and  this  appalling  darkness 
were  what  he  had  heard  the  Reverend  Rogers  speak  of,  at  a 
very  nice  tea  party  at  the  Brookfield  Street  Mission  Hall  to 
which  he  had  once  been  invited,  as  "the  life  to  come." 

Henry  Harper  remembered  that  "the  life  to  come"  was 
to  be  a  very  terrifying  business  for  "those  who  had  done 
evil,"  and  according  to  the  Reverend  Rogers  all  men  had 
56 


THE  SAILOR 

done  evil;  moreover,  he  had  dwelt  at  great  length  on  the 
Wrath  of  the  Supreme  Being  who  was  called  God. 

Henry  Harper  was  in  the  presence  of  God.  This  terrific 
wind  in  which  it  was  impossible  for  any  created  thing  to 
exist  was  the  Wrath  of  the  Supreme  Being.  Such  a  thought 
went  beyond  reason.  It  was  a  key  which  unlocked  secret 
chambers  in  the  inherited  memory  of  Henry  Harper.  Many 
were  the  half  remembered  things  of  which  he  had  had  expe- 
rience through  former  eons  of  time.  The  idea  of  God  was 
the  chief  of  these. 

Half  mad  with  subconscious  recollection,  he  began  to 
crawl  like  a  snake  on  his  belly  along  the  deck.  The  key  was 
unlocking  one  chamber  after  another  in  his  soul.  Now  he 
was  a  fire  worshiper  in  a  primeval  forest;  now  he  was 
cleansing  his  spirit  in  the  blood  of  sacrifice;  now  he  was 
kneeling  and  praying;  now  he  was  dancing  round  a  pile  of 
stones.  He  was  flooded  with  a  subconscious  memory  of 
world-old  worship  of  the  Unseen,  a  propitiation  of  the  thing 
called  God. 

He  was  a  caveman  in  the  presence  of  deity.  Shuddering 
in  every  pulse  of  his  being  he  pressed  his  face  to  the  hot 
boards  of  the  deck.  The  secret  chambers  of  his  mind  were 
assailing  him  with  things  unspeakable.  Even  the  Reverend 
Rogers  could  not  have  imagined  them. 

All  at  once  he  rolled  up  against  something  soft  in  the 
darkness.  With  a  thrill  of  hope  he  knew  it  was  a  living 
thing.  It  was  a  dago  bereft  like  himself.  Lying  with  his 
sweating  face  pressed  to  the  deck,  he  also  was  in  the  pres- 
ence of  deity. 

The  noise  was  too  great  for  their  voices  to  be  heard,  but 
each  knew  that  the  other  was  alive,  and  they  lay  side  by  side 
for  two  hours,  contriving  to  save  their  reason  by  the  sense 
of  each  other's  nearness. 

After  that  time  had  passed  they  were  able  to  crawl  into 
57 


THE  SAILOR 

shelter.  Here  they  found  others  of  the  crew  in  varying 
states  of  terror  and  stupefaction.  But  it  was  now  getting 
lighter,  and  the  wind  was  blowing  less.  The  worst  was 
over.  It  seemed  very  remarkable  that  the  Margaret  Carey 
was  still  afloat. 

In  two  hours  more  the  wind  had  died.  An  hour  after 
that  they  saw  the  sun  again  and  the  ship  kept  her  course  as 
if  nothing  had  occurred.  Indeed,  nothing  had  occurred  to 
speak  of,  in  Mr.  Thompson's  opinion,  except  that  two  mem- 
bers of  the  crew  had  fetched  away  and  gone  overboard,  and 
they  could  ill  afford  to  lose  them,  being  undermanned 
already. 

It  was  now  the  boy's  duty  to  wait  on  the  Old  Man  in  the 
cabin.  This  was  more  to  his  taste  than  having  to  lend  a 
hand  in  the  port  watch.  He  wras  not  the  least  use  on  deck, 
and  was  assured  by  everybody  that  he  never  would  be,  but 
in  the  cabin  he  was  very  alert  and  diligent,  and  less  ineffi- 
cient than  might  have  been  expected.  He  was  really  very 
quick  in  some  ways,  and  he  laid  himself  out  to  please  the 
Old  Man  with  his  cheerful  willingness,  not  that  he  felt  par- 
ticularly willing  or  cheerful  either,  but  he  knew  that  was 
the  only  way  to  save  his  skin.  At  any  rate,  Sailor  was  not 
going  back  into  the  port  watch  if  he  could  possibly  help  it. 

For  such  a  boy  as  he,  with  an  eager,  imaginative  brain 
always  asking  questions  of  its  profoundly  ignorant  owner, 
the  cabin  was  a  far  more  interesting  place  than  the  half-deck 
or  the  forecastle.  There  was  a  measure  of  society  in  the 
cabin;  Mr.  Thompson  and  Mr.  MacFarlane  sometimes 
fraternized  with  the  Old  Man,  after  supper,  and  their  dis- 
course when  they  turned  to  and  smoked  their  pipes  and 
discussed  a  noggin  of  the  Old  Man's  "pertickler,"  of  which 
they  were  great  connoisseurs,  was  very  well  worth  hearing. 

Henry  Harper  found  that  when  the  Old  Man  was  not 
upset  by  the  weather — which  generally  brought  on  a  drink- 
58 


THE  SAILOR 

ing  attack — he  was  human  more  or  less.  Although  prone  to 
outbursts  of  fury,  in  which  anything  might  occur,  he  was  by 
no  means  all  bad.  In  fact,  he  was  rather  by  way  of  being 
religious  when  the  elements  were  in  his  favor.  When  at  a 
loose  end  he  would  read  a  chapter  of  the  Bible,  which  was 
of  the  large  family  order,  adorned  the  cabin  sideboard,  and 
had  apparently  been  handed  down  from  father  to  son.  If 
the  weather  was  good  there  was  often  an  instructive  theo- 
logical discussion  with  Mr.  MacFarlane  after  supper.  The 
second  mate  was  very  full  of  Biblical  lore.  His  interpreta- 
tion of  Holy  Writ  was  not  always  identical  with  that  of  his 
superior  officer,  and  being  a  Scotsman  and  %  man  of  great 
parts  and  character,  he  never  temporized  9r  waived  a  point. 
Sometimes  he  flatly  contradicted  the  Old  Man  who,  to 
Henry  Harper's  intense  surprise,  would  take  it  lying  down, 
being  an  earnest  seeker  after  light  in  these  high  matters. 
For  all  that,  some  of  the  Old  Man's  Biblical  theories  were 
quite  unshakable,  as,  for  instance,  that  Jonah  could  not  have 
been  a  first-rate  seaman. 

In  spite  of  being  short-handed,  things  began  to  go  a 
bit  better.  There  was  very  little  wind,  the  sea  was  like 
glass,  the  sun  was  beautifully  warm  all  day,  and  at  night 
a  warm  and  glowing  sky  was  sown  thickly  with  stars. 
Rather  late  one  afternoon,  while  the  Old  Man  was  drink- 
ing his  tea,  Mr.  MacFarlane  appeared  in  the  cabin  with  a 
look  of  importance,  and  reported  land  to  starboard. 

"Nonsense,  Mr.  MacFarlane,"  said  the  Old  Man.  "We 
s*fe  a  good  nine  days  from  anywhere." 

Mr.  MacFarlane,  however,  maintained  with  polite  firm- 
ness— land  to  starboard  not  being  a  theological  matter — 
ihat  land  there  was  on  the  starboard  bow,  N.  by  NE.  as 
well  as  he  could  reckon. 

"Nonsense,  Mr.  MacFarlane,"  said  the  Old  Man. 

But  he  rose  from  his  tea  at  once,  took  his  binoculars  and 
5  59 


THE  SAILOR 

clambered  on  deck.  A  little  while  afterwards  he  returned 
in  a  state  of  odd  excitement,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Thomp- 
son, and  they  spread  out  a  chart  on  the  cabin  table. 

"By  God,"  said  the  Old  Man,  "it's  the  Island  of  San 
Pedro."  And  he  suddenly  brought  his  fist  down  on  the 
chart.  Moreover,  he  pronounced  the  name  with  a  curious 
intensity.  "By  God,"  he  said,  "I  haven't  seen  that  island 
for  four  and  twenty  years.  We  tried  to  dodge  a  typhoon, 
but  was  caught  in  her,  and  went  aground  on  the  Island  of 
San  Pedro.  There  was  only  me  and  the  ship's  bye  as  lived 
to  tell  the  tale." 

The  voice  of  the  Old  Man  had  grown  hoarse,  and  in  his 
eyes  was  a  glow  of  dark  excitement.  Suddenly  they  met 
full  and  square  the  startled  eyes  of  the  boy  who  was  lis- 
tening eagerly. 

"Only  me  and  the  ship's  bye,"  said  the  Old  Man,  his 
voice  falling  lower.  "We  lived  six  wfcks  on  shellfish  and 
the  boots  and  clothes  of  the  dead." 

The  voice  of  the  Old  Man  sank  to  a  thrilling  whisper. 
He  then  said  sharply:  "Bye,  a  bottle  o'  brandy." 

When  Henry  Harper  brought  the  brandy  his  face  was 
like  a  piece  of  white  chalk. 

"Only  me  and  the  ship's  bye,"  repeated  the  Old  Man  in  a 
hoarse  whisper.  "The  others  went  ravin'  mad.  We  knifed 
'em  one  by  one;  it  was  the  kindest  thing  to  do.  The  bye 
didn't  go  ravin'  mad  till  afterwards.  And  there  weren't  no 
Board  of  Trade  Inquiry." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Thompson,  nodding  his  ugly  head 
and  speaking  in  a  slow,  inhuman  voice. 

"No  Board  o'  Trade  inquiry,"  said  the  Old  Man.  "Nine 
men  and  the  ship's  bye  on  the  Island  o'  San  Pedro,  latitude 
eighteen  degrees,  longitude  one  hundred  and  twenty-four 
degrees."  He  placed  his  finger  on  the  chart  on  the  cabin 
table.  "There  y'are,  Mr.  Thompson.  And  on'y  me  to  tell 
60 


THE  SAILOR 

the  tale.  The  bye  was  gibbering  like  a  baboon  by  the  time 
he  was  fetched  aboard  the  Para  Wanka,  Chinese  barque  out 
o'  Honolulu.  I  was  a  bit  touched  meself.  Thirteen  weeks 
in  'orspital.  Remarkable  recovery.  That's  the  knife  on  the 
sideboard  in  the  leather  case." 

Mr.  Thompson  took  the  knife  in  his  hand  reverently. 

"No  Board  o'  Trade  inquiry,  sir,"  he  said. 

"No  Board  o'  Trade  inquiry,"  said  the  Old  Man,  taking 
a  good  drink  of  neat  brandy.  "Come  on  deck  and  let  us 
have  another  look  at  the  Island  of  San  Pedro." 

Overcome  by  a  sense  of  uncanny  fascination  the  boy  fol- 
lowed the  Old  Man  and  the  mate  up  the  companion  and  to 
the  deck.  Long  the  Old  Man  gazed  at  the  island  through 
his  glass,  but  made  no  further  remark.  Then,  having  seen 
enough  of  it,  he  handed  the  glass  to  Mr.  Thompson,  who 
made  no  remark  either,  but  gazed  with  a  mask  of  steel  at 
the  Island  of  San  Pedro. 

Mr.  MacFarlane,  who  stood  by,  pointed  with  his  finger 
suddenly. 

"Sharks,"  he  said. 

"Aye,"  said  the  Old  Man  with  queer  eyes,  "these  roads 
is  full  of  'em.  Aye,  there  they  are,  the  pretties!" 

The  boy  followed  Mr.  MacFarlane's  finger  over  the  deck 
rail,  and  sure  enough,  quite  near  to  the  ship  was  a  number 
of  creatures  whose  upturned  bellies  shone  a  strange  dead 
white. 

"Come  every  morning  to  look  at  us,  the  pretties,  on  the 
Island  of  San  Pedro."  The  Old  Man  laughed  in  a  queer 
way.  "The  tide  brought  'em  more  than  one  nice  breakfast, 
but  they  never  had  no  luck  with  me  and  that  bye.  He !  he ! 
he!" 

The  Old  Man  went  down  to  the  cabin  rather  unsteadily, 
but  laughing  all  the  way. 


61 


THE  SAILOR 


XV 


SHOULDN'T  wonder  if  it's  a  wet  night,"  said 
Mr.  MacFarlane  to  the  mate  in  the  hearing  of 
the  boy. 

This  was  a  technicality  that  Henry  Harper  didn't  under- 
stand, but  it  held  no  mystery  for  Mr.  Thompson,  who 
smiled  as  he  alone  could  and  growled,  "Yep." 

After  supper,  the  Old  Man  sat  late  and  drank  deep.  He 
pressed  both  his  officers  to  share  with  him.  He  was  always 
passing  the  bottle,  but  though  Mr.  Thompson  and  Mr. 
MacFarlane  were  able  to  keep  a  stout  course,  they  were 
simply  not  in  it  with  the  Old  Man.  For  one  thing  both 
were  men  of  principle  who  preferred  rum  to  brandy,  and 
very  lucidly  for  the  Margaret  Carey,  Mr.  Thompson  in 
certain  aspects  of  his  nature  preferred  his  ship  to  either. 

The  Old  Man  talked  much  that  night  of  the  Island  of 
San  Pedro,  overmuch  perhaps  for  the  refined  mind  of  the 
second  mate.  The  boy  stood  listening  behind  the  Old 
Man's  chair,  ready  to  go  about  as  soon  as  the  Old  Man 
should  be  at  the  end  of  the  bottle. 

"No,  we  didn't  touch  human  flesh,"  said  the  Old  Man. 
"I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  as  a  Christian  man.  But  we 
caught  one  o'  the  Chinamen  at  it — two  of  us  was  China- 
men— an'  we  drew  lots  as  to  who  should  do  him  in.  There 
was  three  white  men  left  at  that  time,  including  myself 
and  excluding  the  bye.  Andrews  it  was,  our  bosun,  who 
drawed  the  ticket,  and  as  soon  as  he  drawed  it  I  thought  he 
looked  young  for  the  work.  He  wanted  to  pass  it  to  me, 
but  I  said  no — he'd  drawed  the  ticket  an'  he  must  do  the 
will  o'  God." 

"  'Scuse   my   interrupting,   sir,"   said    Mr.    MacFarlane, 
"but  how  did  ye  know  it  was  the  will  o'  God  ?" 
62 


THE  SAILOR 

"Because  he'd  drawed  the  ticket,  you  fool,"  snapped  the 
Old  Man.  "Didn't  I  say  he'd  drawed  the  ticket  ?" 

"Yep,"  nodded  Mr.  Thompson. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  Old  Man  with  acerbity.  "It 
was  up  to  Andrews  to  do  the  will  o'  God.  He  said  he'd  not 
do  it  then,  but  he'd  wait  until  the  morning.  I  said,  'There's 
no  time  like  the  present,'  but  he  was  Scotch,  and  he  was 
obstinate,  an'  the  mornin*  never  come  for  Andrews.  He 
began  to  rave  in  the  night,  as  we  all  lay  together  on  the 
sand,  with  the  Chinaman  in  the  middle,  and  at  the  screech 
o'  dawn  when  I  give  him  the  knife,  I  see  at  once  he  was  off 
his  rocker." 

"Up  the  pole,  sir?"  asked  Mr.  MacFarlane,  politely. 

"Yes,  blast  you,"  said  the  Old  Man.  "Don't  you  under- 
stand plain  English?  Bye,  another  bottle." 

As  the  boy's  livid  face  was  caught  by  the  lamp  on  the 
table  while  he  bent  over  it  with  the  new  bottle,  the  Old 
Man  suddenly  laughed.  There  was  something  in  the  boy's 
eyes  that  went  straight  to  his  heart. 

"By  God!"  he  said,  refilling  his  glass.  "That's  a  good 
idea.  We'll  put  Sailor  here  ashore  on  the  Island  o'  San 
Pedro  first  thing  in  the  morning.  We  will,  so  help  me!" 
And  the  Old  Man  winked  solemnly  at  Mr.  Thompson  and 
the  second  mate. 

Mr.  Thompson  smiled  and  the  second  mate  laughed. 
The  idea  itself  was  humorous,  and  the  Old  Man's  method 
of  expressing  it  seemed  to  lend  it  point. 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  said  the  Old  Man,  bringing  his  fist 
down  so  sharply  that  the  brandy  out  of  his  glass  slopped 
over  on  the  tablecloth.  "Sailor  here  shall  be  put  ashore  at 
sunrise  on  the  Island  of  San  Pedro.  We'll  never  be  able 
to  make  a  man  of  him  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey.  We'll 
see  what  the  tigers  and  the  lions  and  the  wolves  and  hyenas 
'11  do  with  him  on  the  Island  o'  San  Pedro." 
63 


THE  SAILOR 

"Sirpints,  Cap'n?"  inquired  Mr.  Thompson  innocently, 
as  he  returned  the  look  of  his  superior  officer. 

"God  bless  me,  yes,  Mr.  Thompson!"  said  the  Old  Man 
in  a  thrilling  voice.  "That's  why  you've  p;ot  to  keep  out  o' 
the  trees.  My  advice  to  Sailor  is — arc  ye  attendin',  young 
feller? — always  sleep  on  sand.  Sirpints  won't  face  sand, 
and  it's  something  to  know  that,  Mr.  Thompson,  when  you 
are  all  on  your  lonesome  on  the  Island  of  San  Pedro." 

"I've  heard  that  afore,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Thompson,  impres- 
sively. "Never  knowed  the  truth  o'  it,  though." 

"True  enough,  Mr.  Thompson,"  said  the  Old  Man.  "Sir- 
pints  has  no  use  for  sand.  Worries  'em,  as  you  might  say." 

"I've  always  understood,  sir,"  said  Mr.  MacFarlane, 
whose  humor  was  apt  to  take  a  pragmatical  turn,  "that  it's 
only  one  sort  o'  sirpint  what's  shy  o'  sand." 

The  Old  Man  eyed  the  second  mate  sullenly. 

"O'  course  it  is,"  he  said,  "and  that's  the  on'y  sort 
they've  got  on  the  Island  o'  San  Pedro.  The  long,  round- 
bellied  sort,  as  don't  bite  but  squeeges." 

"And  swallers  yer?"  said  Mr.  Thompson. 

"And  swallers  yer.  Pythons,  I  think  they're  called,  or 
am  I  thinkin'  o'  boar  constrictors?" 

"Pythons,  sir,"  said  Mr.  MacFarlane.     "What  swallows 
i  a  bullock  as  easy  as  it  swallows  a  baby." 
i      "Yes,  that's  right."    The  Old  Man  turned  to  grin  at  the 
boy,  but  there  was  pathos  in  his  voice.     "Sailor,  my  bye, 
you  must  keep  out  o'  the  trees.    Promise  me,  Sailor,  you'll 
keep  out  o'  the  trees." 

The  boy  had  to  hold  on  by  the  table.  The  laughter  that 
rang  in  his  ears  could  only  have  one  meaning.  He  knew 
that  the  Old  Man  with  the  drink  in  him  would  be  as  good 
as  his  word.  Suddenly,  by  a  queer  trick  of  the  mind,  Henry 
Harper  was  again  a  newsboy  crying,  "  'Orrible  Crime  on  the 
'Igh  Seas,"  along  the  streets  of  Blackhampton. 
64 


THE  SAILOR 


XVI 

SAILOR  didn't  sleep  that  night  in  his  bunk  in  the 
half-deck  but  lay  in  the  lee  of  the  chart-house  look- 
ing up  at  the  stars.  Now  and  again,  he  could  hear 
little  plop-plops  in  the  water,  and  these  he  knew  were 
sharks.  It  was  a  night  like  heaven  itself — not  that  Sailor 
had  had  much  experience  of  heaven  so  far — wonderfully 
calm,  with  the  stars  so  bright  that  even  as  he  lay  he  could 
see  the  outline  of  the  Island  of  San  Pedro.  It  was  so  clear 
in  the  starlight  that  he  could  see  little  dark  patches  here  and 
there  rising  to  the  skyline.  These  were  trees  he  was  sure. 

He  didn't  try  to  sleep,  but  lay  waiting  for  the  dawn,  not 
thinking  of  what  he  should  do,  or  what  he  ought  to  do. 
What  was  the  use?  He  was  alone  and  quite  helpless,  and 
he  was  now  in  a  state  altogether  beyond  mere  terror;  he 
was  face  to  face  with  that  which  his  mind  could  not  meet. 
But  he  was  as  sure  as  those  stars  were  in  the  sky,  that  as 
soon  as  it  was  light  the  Old  Man  would  put  him  ashore  on 
the  Island  of  San  Pedro,  and  that  even  Mr.  Thompson 
would  raise  no  protest. 

Once  or  twice  he  tried  to  think,  but  it  was  no  use.  His 
brain  was  going.  He  must  lie  there  and  wait.  How  long 
he  lay  he  didn't  know,  but  it  seemed  hours  before  he  heard 
the  morning  watch  come  on  deck,  and  even  then  it  was  some 
while  from  daylight.  For  a  long,  long  time  he  lay  stupefied, 
unable  to  do  anything  but  listen  for  the  stealthy  plop- 
plop  of  the  sharks  in  the  water.  And  when  the  daylight 
came,  at  first  it  was  so  imperceptible  that  he  did  not  notice 
it. 

At  last  the  sun  got  up,  and  then  he  saw  that  right  away 
to  starboard  the  sky  was  truly  wonderful,  a  mass  of  delicate 
color  which  the  eye  could  not  grasp.  For  a  moment,  the 
65 


THE  SAILOR 

soul  of  Henry  Harper  was  entranced.  Heaven  itself  was 
opening  before  him.  His  mind  went  back  to  the  Reverend 
Rogers  and  the  Brookfield  Street  Mission.  With  a  stab  of 
shame  for  having  so  long  forgotten  them,  he  suddenly 
recalled  the  words  of  the  Reverend  Rogers  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  the  Golden  Gates.  Flooded  by  an  intolerable  rush 
of  memories,  he  imagined  he  could  see  and  hear  the  Choir 
Invisible.  The  fowls  of  the  air  were  heralding  a  marvelous 
sunrise  in  the  Pacific. 

For  a  moment  he  forgot  the  Island  of  San  Pedro. 
Another  door  of  memory  had  been  unlocked.  He  was  in  a 
flood  of  golden  light.  There  straight  before  him  were  the 
gates  of  paradise.  He  was  looking  at  the  home  of  God. 
Suddenly  Henry  Harper  thought  he  could  hear  the  voices 
of  the  angels.  He  strained  his  eyes  to  starboard.  Real 
angels  with  wings  would  be  a  wonderful  sight.  The  fowls 
of  the  air  were  in  chorus,  the  sharks  were  plopping  in  the 
water,  the  gates  of  heaven  were  truly  marvelous — orange, 
crimson,  gold,  purple,  every  color  he  had  ever  seen  or 
imagined,  and  he  had  seen  and  imagined  many,  was  now 
filling  his  eyes  with  ecstasy.  At  every  pore  of  being  he  was 
sensing  light  and  sound.  He  was  like  a  harp  strung  up. 
And  then  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  there  came  the  voice  of  the 
Old  Man  as  he  climbed  on  deck,  with  Mr.  Thompson  at  his 
heels.  And  then  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  .  the  heavens  opened 
.  .  .  and  Henry  Harper  saw  .  .  .  and  Henry  Harper 
saw.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  great  plop  in  the  water,  much  nearer  than 
that  of  the  sharks.  There  followed  heartrending  screams 
and  cries,  enough  to  appall  the  soul  of  man.  All  hands 
rushed  to  the  side  of  the  ship. 

"It's  on'y  Sailor,"  said  the  Old  Man,  with  a  drunken 
growl.  "Let  him  drown." 

66 


THE  SAILOR 

In  the  next  instant  there  came  another  great  plop  in  the 
water. 

"What  the  hell!"  roared  the  Old  Man. 

"Please,  sir,  Mr.  Thompson's  gone  for  him." 

"Mr.  who?  .  .  .  blast  you!" 

"Mr.  Thompson,  sir." 

"Then  lower  the  gig."     The  Old  Man  began  to  stamp 

up  and  down  the  deck,  roaring  like  a  maniac.     "Lower  the 

gig,  I  tell  ye."     His  fingers  were  the  first  on  the  davits. 

"And  all  hands  pipe  up  a  chantey  .  .  .  louder  .  .  .  louder 

.  .  .  blast  you!  ...  to  keep  off  those  sharks." 

The  Old  Man's  voice  was  hoarse  and  terrible,  as  he 
worked  like  a  demon  to  launch  the  boat. 

"Louder,  louder,  blast  you!"  he  kept  roaring.  The 
smooth,  dead-white  bellies  lay  all  around,  shining  in  the 
sunrise.  The  Old  Man  was  in  a  frenzy;  it  seemed  as  if  the 
boat  would  never  be  got  into  the  water. 

At  last  it  was  launched  and  the  Old  Man  was  the  first  to 
jump  into  it,  still  roaring  like  one  possessed.  He  beat  the 
water  furiously  with  a  piece  of  spar.  But  Mr.  Thompson 
with  the  boy  in  tow  seemed  to  be  holding  his  own  very  well. 
Either  the  sharks  had  not  seen  them,  or  they  dare  not 
approach  in  the  midst  of  that  terrific  outcry. 

They  were  soon  in  the  boat,  Mr.  Thompson  being  a  pow- 
erful swimmer;  and  when  at  last  they  were  back  on  the 
deck  of  the  Margaret  Carey,  the  boy  lay  gasping  and  the 
mate  stood  by  like  some  large  and  savage  dog,  shaking  the 
water  out  of  his  eyes. 

"Whatever  made  you  do  that,  Mr.  Thompson?"  expostu- 
lated the  Old  Man.  He  was  a  good  deal  sobered  by  the 
incident,  and  his  manner  showed  it. 

Mr.  Thompson  did  not  answer.  He  stood  glowering  at 
a  number  of  the  hands  who  had  gathered  round. 

"Don't  none  o'  you  gennelmen  touch  that  bye,"  he  said 
67 


THE  SAILOR 

with  a  slow  snarl,  and  he  pointed  to  the  heap  on  the  deck. 

They  took  Mr.  Thompson's  advice.  Most  people  did 
aboard  the  Margaret  Carey.  Even  the  Old  Man  respected 
it  in  the  -last  resort,  that  was  if  he  was  sober  enough  to 
respect  anything.  But  with  him  it  was  the  seamanship 
rather  than  the  personal  force  of  his  chief  officer  that  turned 
the  scale.  It  was  the  man  himself  to  whom  less  exalted 
people  bowed  the  knee. 

It  took  the  boy  the  best  part  of  two  days  to  recover  the 
use  of  his  wits.  And  even  then  he  was  not  quite  as  he  had 
been.  Something  seemed  to  have  happened  to  him;  a  very 
subtle,  almost  imperceptible  change  had  taken  place.  He 
had  touched  bottom.  In  a  dim  way  he  seemed  to  realize 
that  he  had  been  made  free  of  some  high  and  awful  mystery. 

The  knowledge  was  reflected  in  the  thin  brown  face, 
haunted  now  with  all  manner  of  unimaginable  things.  But 
the  feeling  of  defeat  and  hopelessness  had  passed;  a  new 
Henry  Harper  had  come  out  of  the  sea;  never  again  was  he 
quite  so  feckless  after  that  experience. 

For  one  thing,  he  was  no  longer  afraid  to  go  aloft.  Dur- 
ing the  warm  calm  delightful  days  in  the  Indian  Ocean 
when  things  went  well  with  the  ship,  and  there  happened 
,  to  be  nothing  doing  in  the  cabin,  Sailor  began  to  make  him- 
'self  familiar  with  the  yards.  All  through  the  good  weather 
ihe  practiced  climbing  assiduously,  so  that  one  day  the 
Old  Man  remarked  upon  it  to  the  mate,  demanding  of  that 
gentleman,  "What  has  happened  to  Sailor?  He  goes  aloft 
like  a  monkey  and  sleeps  in  the  cross-trees." 

Mr.  Thompson  made  no  reply,  but  a  look  came  into  his 
grim  face  which  might  be  said  to  express  approval. 

The  Old  Man  and  the  mate  were  the  first  to  recognize 

that  a  change  had  taken  place  in  Sailor,  but  the  knowledge 

was  not  confined  exclusively  to  them.     It  was  soon  shared 

by  others.     One  evening,  as  Sailor  sat  sunning  himself  with 

68 


THE  SAILOR 

the  ship's  cat  on  his  knee,  gazing  with  intensity  now  at  the 
sky,  now  at  the  sea,  one  of  the  hands,  a  rough  nigger  named 
Brutus,  threw  a  boot  at  him  in  order  to  amuse  the  company. 
There  was  a  roar  of  laughter  when  it  was  seen  that  the 
aim  was  so  true  that  the  boy  had  been  hit  in  the  face. 

Sailor  laid  the  cat  on  the  deck,  got  up  quietly,  and  with 
the  blood  running  down  his  cheek  came  over  to  Brutus. 

"Was  that  you,  you ?"     To  the  astonishment  of  all 

he  addressed  in  terms  of  the  sea  the  biggest  bully  aboard 
the  ship. 

"Yep,"  said  the  nigger,  showing  his  fine  teeth  in  a  grin 
at  the  others. 

"There,  then,  you  ugly  swine,"  said  Sailor. 

In  an  instant  he  had  whipped  out  one  of  the  cabin  table 
knives,  which  he  had  hidden  against  the  next  attack,  and 
struck  at  the  nigger  with  all  his  strength.  If  the  point  of 
the  knife  had  not  been  blunt  the  nigger  would  never  have 
thrown  another  boot  at  anybody. 

There  was  a  fine  to-do.  The  nigger,  a  thorough  coward, 
began  to  howl  and  declared  he  was  done.  The  second  mate 
was  fetched,  and  he  reported  the  matter  at  once  to  the 
Old  Man. 

In  a  great  fury  the  Old  Man  came  in  person  to  investi- 
gate.    But  he  very  soon  had  the  rights  of  the  matter ;  the  ,' 
boy's  cheek  was  bleeding  freely,  and  the  nigger  was  more  | 
frightened  than  hurt. 

"Get  below  you,"  said  the  Old  Man  savagely  to  the 
nigger.  "I'll  have  you  in  irons.  I'll  larn  you  to  throw 
boots." 

That  was  all  the  satisfaction  the  nigger  got  out  of  the 
affair,  but  from  then  boots  were  not  thrown  lightheartedly 
at  Sailor. 


69 


THE  SAILOR 


XVII 

AFTER  many  days  of  ocean  tramping  with  an  occa- 
sional discharge  of  cargo  at  an  out  of  the  way 
port,  the  ship  put  in  at  Frisco.  Here,  after  a 
clean  up,  a  new  cargo  was  taken  aboard,  also  a  new  crew. 
This  was  a  pretty  scratch  lot;  the  usual  complement  of 
Yankees,  Dutchmen,  dagoes,  and  an  occasional  Britisher. 

For  a  long  and  trying  fifteen  months,  Sailor  continued 
on  the  seas,  about  all  the  oceans  of  the  world.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  he  was  quite  a  different  boy  from  the  one  who  had 
left  his  native  city  of  Blackhampton.  Dagoes  and  niggers 
no  longer  did  as  they  liked  with  him.  He  still  had  a  strong 
dislike,  it  was  true,  to  going  aloft  in  a  gale,  but  he  invariably 
did  as  he  was  told  to  the  best  of  his  ability;  he  no  longer 
skulked  or  showed  the  white  feather  in  the  presence  of  his 
mates.  Nevertheless,  he  was  always  miserably  unhappy. 
There  was  something  in  his  nature  that  could  not  accept  the 
hateful  discomforts  of  a  life  before  the  mast,  although  from 
the  day  of  his  birth  he  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  lie 
soft.  He  was  in  hell  all  the  time.  Moreover,  he  knew  it 
and  felt  it  to  the  inmost  fiber  of  his  being;  the  soul  of 
Henry  Harper  was  no  longer  derelict. 

The  sense  of  the  miracle  which  had  happened  off  the 
Island  of  San  Pedro  abided  with  him  through  gale  and 
typhoon,  through  sunshine  and  darkness,  through  winter 
and  summer.  It  didn't  matter  what  the  sea  was  doing,  or 
the  wind  was  saying,  or  the  Old  Man  was  threatening,  a 
miracle  had  happened  to  Henry  Harper.  He  had  touched 
bed  rock.  He  had  seen  things  and  he  had  learned  things; 
man  and  nature,  all  the  terrible  and  mysterious  forces 
around  him  could  do  their  worst,  but  he  no  longer  feared 
them  in  the  old  craven  way.  Sailor  had  suffered  a  SCSL 
70 


THE  SAILOR 

change.  The  things  in  earth  and  heaven  he  had  looked  upon 
none  could  share  with  him,  not  even  Mr.  Thompson,  that 
strange  and  sinister  man  of  the  sea,  to  whom  he  owed  what 
was  called  "his  life";  nay,  not  even  the  Old  Man  himself 
who  had  lived  six  weeks  on  shellfish  on  the  Island  of  San 
Pedro. 

When  the  Margaret  Carey  had  been  to  Australia  and 
round  the  larger  half  of  the  world,  she  put  in  at  Frisco 
again.  Here  she  took  another  cargo  and  signed  on  fresh 
hands  for  a  voyage  round  the  Pacific  Coast.  Among  the 
latter  was  a  man  called  Klondyke.  At  least,  that  was  the 
name  he  went  by  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey,  and  was 
never  called  by  any  other.  At  first  this  individual  puzzled 
Henry  Harper  considerably.  He  shared  a  berth  with  him 
in  the  half-deck,  and  the  boy — now  a  grown  man  rising  six- 
teen— armed  with  a  curiosity  that  was  perfectly  insatiable, 
and  a  faculty  of  taking  lively  and  particular  notice,  found  a 
great  deal  to  interest  him  in  this  new  chum. 

He  was  about  twenty- four  and  a^  Britisher,  although 
Sailor  in  common  with  most  of  his  shipmates  thought  af 
first  that  he  was  a  Yankee.  For  one  thing,  he  was  a  new 
type  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey.  Very  obviously  he  knew 
little  of  the  sea,  but  that  didn't  seem  to  trouble  him.  From 
the  moment  he  set  foot  aboard,  he  showed  that  he  could  take 
good  care  of  himself.  It  was  not  obtrusive  but  quietly 
efficient  care  that  he  took  of  himself,  yet  it  seemed  to  bear 
upon  the  attitude  of  all  with  whom  he  had  to  do. 

Klondyke  knew  nothing  about  a  windjammer,  but  soon 
started  in  to  learn.  And  it  didn't  seem  to  matter  what 
ticklish  or  unpleasant  jobs  he  was  put  to — jobs  for  which 
Sailor  could  never  overcome  a  great  dislike — he  had  always 
a  remarkable  air  of  being  in  this  hard  and  perilous  business 
merely  for  the  good  of  his  health. 

Klondyke  said  he  had  never  been  aloft  before  in  his  life, 
71 


THE  SAILOR 

and  the  first  time  he  went  up  it  was  blowing  hard  from  the 
northeast,  yet  his  chief  concern  before  he  started  was  to  lay 
a  bet  of  five  dollars  with  anybody  in  the  starboard  watch 
that  he  didn't  fall  out  of  the  rigging.  But  there  were  no 
takers,  for  there  was  not  a  man  aboard  who  would  believe 
that  this  was  the  first  time  he  had  gone  up  on  a  yard. 

It  was  not  many  weeks  before  Klondyke  was  the  most 
efficient  ordinary  seaman  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey.  And 
by  that  time  he  had  become  a  power  among  the  after  gang. 
As  one  of  the  Yankees,  who  was  about  as  tough  as  they 
made  them  but  with  just  a  streak  of  the  right  color  in  him, 
expressed  it,  "Klondyke  was  a  white  man  from  way  back." 

The  fact  was,  Klondyke  was  a  white  man  all  through,  the 
only  one  aboard  the  ship.  It  was  not  a  rarefied  or  aggres- 
sively shining  sort  of  whiteness.  His  language  on  occasion 
could  be  quite  as  salt  as  that  of  anybody  else,  even  more  so, 
perhaps,  as  he  had  a  greater  range  of  tongues,  both  living 
and  dead,  from  which  to  choose.  He  was  very  partial  to 
his  meals,  and  growled  terribly  if  the  grub  went  short  as  if 
often  did;  he  also  set  no  store  by  dagoes  and  "sich,"  for  he 
was  very  far  from  believing  that  all  men  were  equal.  They 
were,  no  doubt,  in  the  sight  of  God,  but  Klondyke  main- 
tained that  the  English  were  first,  Yankees  and  Dutchmen 
divided  second  place,  and  the  rest  of  sea-going  humanity 
were  not  on  the  chart  at  all.  He  was  always  extremely 
clear  about  this. 

From  the  first  day  of  Klondykc's  coming  aboard,  Sailor, 
who  was  very  sharp  in  some  things,  became  mightily  inter- 
ested in  the  new  hand  in  the  wonderful  fur  cap  with  flaps 
for  the  nose  and  ears,  who  went  about  the  ship  as  if  he 
owned  it;  while  after  a  time  the  new  hand  returned  the 
compliment  by  taking  a  friendly  interest  in  Sailor.  But 
that  was  not  at  first.  Klondyke,  for  all  his  go-as-you-please 
air,  was  not  the  kind  of  man  who  entered  easily  upon  per- 
72 


THE  SAILOR 

sonal  relations.  Moreover,  there  was  something  about  him 
which  puzzled  Henry  Harper.  He  spoke  a  kind  of  lingo 
the  boy  had  never  heard  before.  It  was  that  as  much  as 
anything  which  had  made  Sailor  think  he  was  a  Yank.  He 
had  not  been  used  to  that  sort  of  talk  at  Blackhampton,  nor 
was  it  the  kind  in  vogue  on  the  Margaret  Carey.  If  not 
exactly  la-di-da,  had  it  been  in  the  mouth  of  some  people  it 
would  have  been  considered  a  trifle  thick. 

Sailor's  intimacy  with  Klondyke,  which  was  to  have  an 
important  bearing  upon  his  life,  began  in  quite  a  casual  way. 

One  afternoon,  with  the  sea  like  glass,  and  not  a  puff  of 
wind  in  the  sails,  they  sat  together  on  the  deck  picking 
oakum  to  keep  them  from  idleness,  when  Klondyke  suddenly 
remarked:  "Sailor,  don't  think  me  inquisitive,  but  I'm 
wondering  what  brought  you  to  sea." 

"Inquisitive"  was  a  word  Sailor  had  not  heard  before, 
and  he  could  only  guess  at  its  meaning.  But  he  thought 
Klondyke  so  little  inquisitive  that  he  said  at  once  quite 
simply  and  frankly,  "Dunno."  He  then  added  by  way  of 
an  afterthought,  although  Klondyke  was  a  new  chum  and 
rated  the  same  as  himself,  "Mister." 

"No,  I  expect  not,"  said  Klondyke,  "but  I've  been  won- 
dering a  bit  lately" — there  was  something  very  pleasant  in 
Klondyke's  tone — "how  you  come  to  be  aboard  this  hell 
ship.  One  would  have  thought  you'd  have  done  better 
ashore." 

Sailor  was  not  able  to  offer  an  opinion  upon  that. 

"In  some  kind  of  a  store  or  an  office?" 

"Can't  read,  can't  write." 

"No?"  Klondyke's  eyebrows  went  up  for  a  fraction  of 
an  instant,  then  they  came  down  as  if  a  bit  ashamed  of  them- 
selves for  having  gone  up  at  all.  "But  it's  quite  easy  to 
learn,  you  know." 

Sailor  gasped  in  astonishment.  He  had  always  been  led 
73 


THE  SAILOR 

to  believe  that  to  learn  to  read  and  write  was  a  task  of  super- 
human difficulty.  Some  of  his  friends  at  Blackhampton  had 
attended  a  night  school  now  and  again,  but  none  of  them 
had  been  able  to  make  much  of  the  racket  of  reading  and 
writing,  except  one,  Nick  Price,  who  had  a  gift  that  way 
and  was  good  for  nothing  else.  Besides,  as  soon  as  he  really 
took  to  the  game  a  change  came  over  him.  Finally,  he  left 
the  town. 

"I'd  never  be  able  to  read  an'  write,"  said  Sailor. 

""Why  not?"  said  Klondyke.  "Why  not,  like  anybody 
-else  ...  if  you  stuck  it?  Of  course,  you'd  have  to  stick  it, 
you  know.  It  mightn't  come  very  kind  at  first." 

This  idea  was  so  entirely  new  that  Sailor  rose  with  quite 
a  feeling  of  excitement  from  the  upturned  bucket  on  which 
he  sat. 

"Honest,  mister,"  he  said,  gazing  wistfully  into  the  face 
of  Klondyke,  "do  you  fink  I  could?" 

"Sure,"  said  Klondyke.  "Sure  as  God  made  little 
apples." 

Sailor  decided  that  he  would  think  it  over.  It  was  a  very 
important  step  to  take. 


XVIII 

KLONDYKE'S  library  consisted  of  two  volumes:  the 
Bible   and    "Don   Quixote."      Sailor  knew   a   bit 
about  the   former  work.     The   Reverend   Rogers 
had  read  it  aloud  on  a  famous  occasion  when  Henry  Harper 
had  had  the  luck  to  be  invited  to  a  real  blowout  of  tea 
and  buns  at  the  Brookfield  Street  Mission.     That  was  a 
priceless  memory,  and  Henry  Harper  always  thought  that 
to  hear  the  Reverend  Rogers  read  the  Bible  was  a  treat. 
Klondyke,  who  was  not  at  all  like  the  Reverend  Rogers 
74 


THE  SAILOR 

in  word  or  deed,  said  it  was  "a  damned  good  book,"  and 
would  sometimes  read  in  it  when  he  was  at  a  bit  of  a  loose 
end. 

It  was  by  means  of  this  volume  that  Sailor  learned  his 

alphabet.     Presently  he  got  to  spelling  words  of  two  and 

j  three  letters,  then  he  got  as  far  as  remembering  them,  and 

'  then  came  the  proud  day  when  he  could  write  his  name 

with  a  stump  of  pencil  on  a  stray  piece  of  the  Brooklyn 

Eagle,  in  which  Klondyke  had  packed  his  tooth  brush,  the 

only  one  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey. 

"What  is  your  name,  old  friend  ?"  Klondyke  asked. 

"Enry  Arper." 

"H-e-n  with  a  Hen,  ry — Heniy.  H-a-r  with  a  Har, 
p-e-r — Harper." 

"There  ain't  no  aitch  in  Arper,"  said  Sailor. 

"Why  not?" 

Enry  Arper  was  Sailor's  own  private  name,  which  he  had 
been  given  at  his  birth,  which  he  had  used  all  his  life.  He 
had  always  felt  that  as  it  was  the  only  thing  he  owned,  it 
was  his  to  do  with  as  he  liked.  Therefore  he  was  deter- 
mined to  spell  it  according  to  his  fancy.  He  wouldn't  admit 
that  there  could  possibly  be  an  aitch  in  Arper;  and  for  some 
little  time  his  faith  in  Klondyke's  competence  was  a  bit 
shaken,  for  his  mentor  was  at  pains  to  make  out  that  there 
could  be  and  was. 

Henry  Harper  stuck  to  his  ground,  however. 

"It's  me  own  name,"  he  said,  "an'  I  oughter  know." 

Klondyke  was  amused.  He  seemed  rather  to  admire 
Sailor's  attitude.  No  doubt  he  felt  that  no  Englishman  is 
worth  his  salt  who  doesn't  spell  his  name  just  as  the  fancy 
takes  him. 

Klondyke's  own  name  was  Jack  Pridmore,  and  it  was  set 
out  with  other  particulars  on  the  flyleaf  of  his  Bible.     In  a 
large  and  rather  crude  copperplate  was  inscribed: 
6  75 


THE  SAILOR 

Jack  Pridmore  is  my  name, 

England  is  my  nation, 
Good  old  Eton  College 

Gave  me  a  lib'ral  education. 
Stet  domus  et 
Floreat  Etona. 

The  arms  of  Eton  College  with  the  motto  "Floreat  Etona" 
were  inscribed  on  the  opposite  page,  also  in  tattoo  on  the  left 
arm  of  the  owner.  In  Sailor's  opinion,  Eton  College  did 
flourish  undoubtedly  in  the  person  of  Jack  Pridmore.  He 
was  a  white  man  all  through,  and  long  before  Sailor  could 
make  out  that  inscription  on  the  flyleaf  of  Klondyke's  Bible, 
he  was  convinced  that  such  was  the  case. 

In  Sailor's  opinion,  he  was  a  good  one  to  follow  any- 
where. Everything  in  Klondyke  seemed  in  just  the  right 
proportion  and  there  was  nothing  in  excess.  He  was  new  to 
the  sea,  but  he  was  not  in  the  least  green  or  raw  in  anything. 
You  would  have  to  stay  up  all  night  if  you  meant  to  get 
ahead  of  him.  So  much  had  he  knocked  about  the  world 
that  he  knew  men  and  cities  like  the  back  of  his  hand,  and 
he  had  the  art  of  shaking  down  at  once  in  any  company. 

All  the  same,  in  Sailor's  opinion,  he  had  odd  ideas.  For 
one  thing,  he  set  his  face  against  the  habit  of  carrying  a  knife 
in  your  shirt  in  case  the  dagoes  got  above  themselves. 

"It's  not  quite  white,  you  know,  old  friend,"  said  Klon- 
dyke. 

"Dagoes  ain't  white,"  said  Sailor. 

"No;  and  that's  why  we've  got  to  show  'em  how  white 
we  are  if  we  are  going  to  keep  top  dog." 

This  reasoning  was  too  deep  for  Sailor. 

"Don't  see  it  meself.     Them  dagoes  is  bigger'n  me.     If 
I  could  lick  'em,  I'd  lick  'em  till  they  hollered  when  they 
started  in  to  fool  around.    But  they  are  real  yaller;  none  on 
'em  will  face  a  bit  o'  sheffle." 
76 


THE  SAILOR 

"No,"  said  Klondyke,  "and  they'll  not  face  a  straight 
left  with  a  punch  in  it  either." 

Klondyke  then  made  a  modest  suggestion  that  Sailor 
should  acquire  this  part  of  a  white  man's  equipment.  He 
was  firmly  convinced  that  with  the  rudiments  of  reading  and 
writing  and  a  straight  left  with  a  punch  in  it,  you  could  go 
all  over  the  world. 

At  first  Sailor  took  by  no  means  as  kindly  to  the  punch- 
ing as  he  did  to  the  other  branches  of  knowledge.  He 
wanted  a  bit  of  persuading  to  face  Klondyke  in  "a  little 
friendly  scrapping  practice"  in  the  lee  of  the  chart  house 
when  no  one  was  by.  Klondyke  was  as  hard  as  a  nail;  his 
left  was  like  a  horse's  kick;  and  when  he  stood  in  his  birth- 
day suit,  which  he  did  once  a  day  to  receive  the  bucket  of 
water  he  got  Sailor  to  dash  over  him — another  of  his  odd 
ideas — he  looked  as  fine  a  picture  of  make  and  muscle  as  you 
could  wish  to  see.  Sailor  thought  "the  little  friendly  scrap- 
ping practice"  was  a  very  one-sided  arrangement.  His  nose 
seemed  to  bleed  very  easily,  his  eyes  began  to  swell  so  that 
he  could  hardly  see  out  of  them,  and  his  lips  and  ears  thick- 
ened with  barely  any  provocation  at  all,  whereas  he  never 
seemed  to  get  within  a  yard  of  Klondyke's  physiognomy  un- 
less that  warrior  put  down  his  hands  and  allowed  him  to  hit 
it. 

By  this  time,  however,  Klondyke  had  laid  such  a  hold  on 
Henry  Harper  that  he  didn't  like  to  turn  it  up.  He'd 
never  make  a  Slavin  or  a  Corbett — it  simply  wasn't  in  him 
— but  all  that  was  "white"  in  Sailor  mustered  at  this  chap's 
call.  The  fact  was,  he  had  begun  to  worship  Klondyke,  and 
when  with  the  "sand"  of  a  true  hero  he  was  able  to  get 
over  an  intense  dislike  of  being  knocked  about,  he  began  to 
feel  a  sort  of  pride  in  the  process.  If  he  had  to  take  gruel 
from  anybody,  it  had  better  be  from  him.  Besides,  Sailor 
was  such  a  queer  fish  that  there  seemed  something  in  his 
77 


THE  SAILOR 

nature  which  almost  craved  for  a  licking  from  the  finest 
chapvhe  had  ever  known.  His  affection  for  this  "whitest" 
of  men  seemed  to  grow  with  the  punishment  he  took  from 
him. 

One  night,  after  an  easy  watch,  as  they  lay  talking  and 
smoking  in  their  bunks  in  the  dark,  Klondyke  remarked: 

"Sailor,  there's  a  lot  o'  guts  in  you." 

Henry  Harper,  who  was  very  far  off  that  particular  dis- 
covery, didn't  know  what  Klondyke  was  getting  at. 

"You've  taken  quite  a  lot  of  gruel  this  week.  And  you've 
stood  up  to  it  well.  Mind,  I  don't  think  you'll  ever  make 
a  bruiser,  not  if  you  practice  until  the  cows  come  home.  It 
simply  isn't  there,  old  friend.  It's  almost  like  hitting  a 
woman,  hitting  you.  It  is  not  your  line  of  country,  and  it 
gets  me  what  you  are  doing  aboard  this  blue-nose  outfit. 
How  do  you  stick  it?  It  must  be  hell  all  the  time." 

Henry  Harper  made  no  reply.  He  was  rather  out  of  his 
depth  just  now,  but  he  guessed  that  most  of  this  was  true. 

"I  don't  mind  taking  chances,  but  it's  all  the  other  way 
with  you.  Every  time  you  go  aloft,  you  turn  white  as  chalk, 
and  that  shows  what  grit  you've  got.  But  your  mother 
ought  never  to  have  let  you  come  to  sea,  my  boy." 

"Never  had  no  mother,"  said  Sailor. 

"No" — Klondyke  felt  he  ought  to  have  known  that. 
"Well,  it  would  have  saved  mine  a  deal  of  disappointment," 
he  said  cheerfully,  "if  she  had  never  had  such  a  son.  I'm 
her  great  sorrow.  But  if  you  had  had  a  mother  it  would 
have  been  another  story.  You'd  have  been  a  regular  mother's 
boy." 

Sailor  wasn't  sure. 


THE  SAILOR 


XIX 

KLONDYKE  was  ten  months  an  ordinary  seamari 
aboard  the  Margaret  Carey.  In  that  time  the  old 
tub,  which  could  not  have  been  so  crazy  as  she 
seemed  to  the  experts  of  the  forecastle,  went  around  the 
Pacific  as  far  as  Brisbane,  thence  to  Durban,  thence  again 
to  California.  Meanwhile,  friendship  ripened.  It  was  a 
great  thing  for  Sailor  to  have  the  countenance  of  such  a  man 
as  Klondyke.  He  knew  so  much  more  about  the  world  than 
Sailor  did,  also  he  was  a  real  friend  and  protector;  and, 
when  they  went  ashore  together  in  strange  places,  as  they 
often  did,  he  had  a  wonderful  knack  of  making  himself 
respected. 

It  was  not  that  Klondyke  wore  frills.  In  most  of  the 
places  in  which  they  found  themselves  a  knife  in  the  ribs 
would  have  done  his  business  out  of  hand  had  that  been  the 
case.  It  was  simply  that  he  knew  his  way  and  could  talk 
to  every  man  in  his  own  language,  and  every  woman,  too,  if 
it  came  to  that.  Whether  it  was  a  Frisco  hash-slinger  or  a 
refined  bar-lady  along  the  seaboard  made  no  difference  to 
Klondyke.  It  was  true  that  he  always  looked  as  if  he  had 
jbought  the  earth  at  five  per  cent,  discount  for  cash  and  car- 
•ried  the  title  deeds  in  his  pocket,  but  he  had  such  a  way 
with  him  that  from  Vancouver  to  Sydney  and  back  again 
nobody  seemed  to  think  the  worse  of  him  for  it. 

However,  the  day  came  all  too  soon  when  a  tragic  blow 
fell  on  Sailor.  The  ship  put  in  at  Honolulu  one  fine  morn- 
ing, and  as  soon  as  Klondyke  went  ashore  he  picked  up  a 
substitute  for  himself  on  the  waterfront,  whom  the  Old 
Man  was  willing  to  accept  for  the  rest  of  his  term.  Klon- 
dyke then  broke  the  news  to  Sailor  that  he  had  just  taken 
a  fancy  to  walk  across  Asia, 

79 


THE  SAILOR 

It  was  a  heavy  blow.  Sailor  was  very  near  tears,  although 
he  was  growing  in  manhood  every  week. 

"It's  no  use  asking  you  to  come  with  me,"  said  Klondyke. 
"We  shouldn't  have  enough  brass  to  go  round.  Besides, 
now  the  wanderlust  is  on  me  there  is  no  saying  where  I'll 
get  to.  I'm  very  likely  to  be  sawed  up  for  firewood  in  the 
middle  of  Tibet." 

Sailor  knew  that  Klondyke  wanted  to  make  the  journey 
alone.  Partly  to  soften  the  blow  and  partly  as  an  impulse 
of  friendship,  he  gave  the  boy  his  Bible  and  also  his  wonder- 
ful fur  cap  with  flaps  for  the  nose  and  ears. 

"Stick  to  the  reading  and  writing,  old  friend,"  were  the 
final  words  of  this  immortal.  "That's  your  line  of  country. 
It'll  pay  you  in  the  end.  You'll  get  no  good  out  of  the  sea. 
If  you  are  wise,  whenever  you  touch  the  port  of  London, 
you'll  give  a  miss  to  this  old  tub.  A  life  on  the  ocean  wave 
is  never  going  to  be  the  least  use  to  you." 

Sailor  knew  that  Klondyke  was  right.  But  among  the 
many  things  he  lacked  was  all  power  of  initiative.  As  soon 
as  he  had  lost  his  prop  and  stay,  he  was  once  more  a  dere- 
lict. For  him  life  before  the  mast  must  always  be  a  hell, 
but  he  had  no  power  of  acting  for  himself.  After  Klondyke 
left  the  ship  there  didn't  seem  anything  else  to  do  beyond  a 
mere  keeping  of  body  and  soul  together  aboard  the  Mar- 
garet Carey.  There  was  nothing  else  he  could  do  if  it  came 
to  that.  He  had  only  learned  to  sell  papers  on  land,  and  he 
had  given  the  best  years  of  his  life  to  the  sea.  Besides,  every 
voyage  he  became  a  better  sailor  and  was  paid  a  bit  more; 
he  even  had  visions  of  one  day  being  rated  able  seaman. 
Moreover,  being  saving  and  careful,  his  slender  store  of 
dollars  grew.  But  his  heart  was  never  really  in  his  work, 
never  in  the  making  of  money  nor  in  the  sailing  of  the  ship. 

He  was  a  square  peg  in  a  round  hole.  He  didn't  know 
enough  about  himself  or  the  world  or  the  life  he  was  trying 
80 


THE  SAILOR 

to  live  to  realize  fully  that  this  was  the  case.  And  for  all 
his  weakness  of  will  and  complete  lack  of  training,  which 
made  his  life  a  burden  to  him,  he  had  a  curious  sort  of 
tenacity  that  enabled  him  to  keep  on  keeping  on  long  after 
natures  with  more  balance  would  have  turned  the  thing  up. 

All  the  years  he  was  at  sea,  he  never  quite  overcame  the 
sense  of  fear  the  sea  aroused  in  him;  he  seldom  went  aloft, 
even  in  a  dead  calm,  without  changing  color,  and  he  never 
dared  look  down;  he  must  have  lost  his  hold  in  many  a 
thrashing  northeaster  and  been  broken  on  the  deck  like  an 
egg  but  for  an  increasing  desire  to  live  that  was  simple  tor- 
ment. There  was  a  kind  of  demon  in  his  soul  which  made 
him  fight  for  a  thing  that  mocked  it. 

He  had  no  other  friend  after  Klondyke  went.  No  other 
was  possible;  besides,  he  had  a  fierce  distrust  of  half  his 
shipmates;  he  even  lost  his  early  reverence  for  Mr.  Thomp- 
son, in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  owed  him  his  life,  long 
before  the  mate  left  the  ship  at  Liverpool  nine  months  after 
the  departure  of  Klondyke.  Above  all,  the  Old  Man  in 
liquor  always  inspired  his  terror,  a  treat  to  be  counted  on 
once  a  month  at  least.  The  years  of  his  seafaring  were  bit- 
ter, yet  never  once  did  he  change  ship.  He  often  thought 
about  it,  but  unluckily  for  Henry  Harper  thought  was  not 
action;  he  "never  quite  matched  up,"  as  Klondyke  used  to 
express  it.  He  had  a  considerable  power  of  reflection;  he 
was  a  creature  of  intuitions,  with  a  faculty  of  observation 
almost  marvelous  in  an  untrained  mind,  but  he  never  seemed 
able  to  act  for  himself. 

Another  grave  error  was  that  he  didn't  take  Klondyke's 
advice  and  stick  to  reading  and  writing.  No  doubt  he  ought 
to  have  done  it;  but  it  was  such  a  tough  job  that  he  could 
hardly  take  it  on  by  himself.  The  drudgery  made  him  mis- 
erable; it  brought  too  vividly  to  his  mind  the  true  friend 
who  had  gone  out  of  his  life.  For  the  rest  of  his  time 
81 


THE  SAILOR 

aboard  the  Margaret  Carey  he  never  got  over  the  loss  of 
Klondyke.  The  presence  and  support  of  that  immortal  had 
meant  another  world  for  him.  For  many  months  he  could 
hardly  bear  the  sight  of  the  Bible  his  friend  had  given  him, 
but  cherished  it  as  he  had  once  cherished  an  apple  that  had 
also  been  given  him  by  one  who  had  crossed  his  orbit  in 
the  night  of  time  and  had  spoken  to  him  in  passing. 

It  is  not  unlikely  that  Henry  Harper  would  have  sailed 
the  seas  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey  until  that  miraculous 
ship  went  to  pieces  in  mid-ocean  or  turned  turtle  round  the 
Horn;  it  is  not  unlikely  that  he  would  have  gone  down  to 
his  grave  without  a  suspicion  that  any  other  kingdom  awaited 
him,  had  it  not  been  that  in  the  last  resort  the  decision  was 
taken  out  of  his  hands. 

One  day,  when  he  had  been  rather  more  than  six  years  at 
sea,  the  Margaret  Carey  was  within  three  days  of  London, 
whither  she  was  bound  with  a  cargo  of  wheat,  when  the  Old 
Man  informed  him  briefly  and  curtly  that  she  was  making 
her  last  voyage  and  that  she  was  going  to  be  broken  up. 
The  news  was  such  a  blow  that  at  first  Sailor  could  not 
realize  what  it  meant.  He  had  come  to  feel  that  no  sort  of 
existence  would  be  possible  apart  from  the  Margaret  Carey. 
He  had  lived  six  crowded  and  terrible  years  of  worse  than 
discomfort,  but  he  could  envisage  no  future  apart  from  that  / 
leaking,  crazy,  foul  old  tub. 

All  too  soon  the  day  came,  a  misty  morning  of  October, 
when  he  stepped  ashore.  A  slender  bundle  was  under  one 
arm,  Klondyke's  fur  cap  on  his  head,  a  weird  outfit  on  his 
lathlike  body,  an  assortment  of  clothes  as  never  was  on  sea 
or  land  before ;  and  he  had  a  store  of  coins  of  various  realms, 
no  less  than  eighty-five  pieces  of  all  sizes  and  values,  from 
an  English  farthing  to  a  Mexican  five  dollars,  very  care- 
fully disposed  about  his  person. 


82 


BOOK   II 

TRAVAIL 


THE  Sailor,  shipless  and  alone,  was  about  to  enter  the 
most  amazing  city  in  the  world. 
He  was  a  handsome  boy,  lean,  eager  eyed,   and 
very  straight  in  the  body  in  spite  of  his  gear,  which  consisted 
mainly  of  leggings,  a  tattered  jersey,  and  a  wonderful  fur 
cap  with  flaps  for  the  nose  and  ears.     He  was  fairly  tall, 
but  being  as  thin  as  a  rail  looked  much  taller  than  he  was. 
His  face  and  hands  were  the  color  of  mahogany,  his  vivid 
eyes  were  set  with  long  intercourse  with  the  sea,  and  in  them 
was  a  look  that  was  very  hard  to  forget. 

He  came  ashore  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  Tues- 
day, October  the  fifth.  For  a  while  he  stood  on  the  edge 
of  the  quay  with  his  bundle  under  his  arm,  wondering  what 
he  should  do.  It  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  ask  advice 
when  he  left  the  ship.  Even  the  bosun  had  not  said,  "So 
long"  to  him ;  in  spite  of  six  years'  service  he  was  a  poor  sea- 
man with  no  real  heart  for  his  job.  He  had  been  a  cheap 
and  inefficient  hand ;  aboard  a  better  ship,  in  the  Old  Man's 
opinion,  he  would  have  been  dear  at  any  price. 

His  relations  with  the  rest  of  the  crew  had  never  been 
intimate.  Most  considered  him  "soft"  or  "a  bit  touched"; 
from  the  Old  Man  to  the  last  joined  ship's  boy,  he  was  "only 
Sailor."  He  never  thought  of  asking  what  he  ought  to  do; 
and  had  he  done  so  his  curious  intuition  told  him  the  an- 
83 


THE  SAILOR 

swer  he  would  have  been  likely  to  receive.  They  would 
have  told  him  to  go  and  drown  himself. 

He  had  not  been  ashore  a  quarter  of  an  hour  when  he 
began  to  feel  that  it  was  the  best  thing  he  could  do.  But 
the  queer  faculty  he  had  told  him  at  once  that  it  was  a 
thing  he  would  never  be  able  to  do  now.  If  he  had  had  any 
luck  it  would  have  been  done  years  ago. 

Therefore,  instead  of  jumping  over  the  side  of  the  quay, 
he  suddenly  walked  through  the  dock  gates  into  the  streets 
of  Wapping.  All  the  morning  he  drifted  aimlessly  up  one 
street  and  down  another,  his  bundle  under  his  arm,  but 
neither  plan  nor  purpose  in  his  mind.  At  last,  he  began  to 
feel  very  hungry,  and  then  he  found  himself  up  against 
the  problem  of  getting  something  to  eat. 

Opposite  where  he  stood  in  the  narrow,  busy,  intermin- 
able street  was  an  imposing  public  house,  painted  a  magnifi- 
cent yellow.  He  knew  that  bread  and  cheese  and  a  tankard 
of  beer,  which  he  so  greatly  desired,  were  there  for  the  ask- 
ing. But  the  asking! — that  was  the  rub.  He  always  felt 
tongue-tied  in  a  public  house,  and  his  experience  of  them  in 
his  brief  shore-goings  in  Frisco,  Sydney,  Liverpool,  or  Shang- 
hai had  never  been  happy,  and  had  sometimes  ended  in  dis- 
aster. But  now  under  the  spur  of  need,  he  crossed  the  street 
and,  fixing  his  will,  found  his  way  through  the  swing  doors 
into  the  gilded  interior  of  the  Admiral  Nelson. 

Happily,  the  American  bar  was  at  that  moment  without 
a  customer.  This  was  a  great  relief  to  the  Sailor.  But  a 
truly  thrilling  bar-lady,  replete  with  earrings,  a  high  bust, 
and  an  elaborate  false  front,  gave  him  an  eye  of  cool  dis- 
dain as  he  entered  with  his  bundle,  which  he  laid  upon  a 
marble-topped  table  as  far  from  her  as  possible;  and  then, 
after  a  long  moment's  pause,  in  order  to  screw  his  courage 
to  the  sticking-point,  he  came  over  to  the  counter. 

The  sight  of  the  bar-lady  brought  a  surge  of  previous 
84 


THE  SAILOR 

shore-goings  into  the  Sailor's  mind.  Quite  automatically, 
he  doffed  his  fur  cap  as  Klondyke  would  have  done  in  these 
heroic  circumstances,  and  then  all  at  once  she  forgot  to  be 
magnificent.  For  one  thing,  in  spite  of  his  grotesque  clothes 
and  his  thin  cheeks  and  his  shock  of  chestnut  hair,  he  was 
a  decidedly  handsome  boy.  Also  he  was  a  genuinely  polite 
and  modest  one,  and  the  bar-lady,  Miss  Burton  by  name, 
who  had  the  worldly  wisdom  that  owns  to  thirty-nine  and 
the  charm  which  goes  with  that  period  of  life,  was  favor- 
ably impressed.  "What  can  I  do  for  you?"  Miss  Burton  in- 
quired. It  was  clear  that  her  one  desire  was  to  help  a  shy 
youth  over  his  embarrassment. 

The  voice  of  the  fair,  so  charmingly  civilized,  at  once 
unlocked  a  door  in  the  Sailor's  memory.  With  a  further 
slow  summoning  of  will-power  which  made  it  the  more  im- 
pressive, he  answered  precisely  as  Klondyke  had  at  the  Bo- 
dega in  Frisco:  "May  I  have  some  bread  and  cheese,  please, 
and  half  a  pint  of  beer?" 

"Certainly  you  may,"  she  smiled. 

The  tone  of  deference  had  touched  a  chord  in  her.  More- 
over, he  really  was  handsome,  although  attired  as  a  very 
ordinary,  not  to  say  a  very  common,  seaman,  and  evidently 
far  more  at  home  on  the  deck  of  a  windjammer  than  in  the 
American  bar  of  an  up-to-date  public-house. 

"Fourpence,  please."  The  bar-lady  set  before  him  a 
pewter  flagon  of  foaming  fresh-drawn  ale,  also  a  liberal  piece 
of  bread  and  cheese,  beautifully  white  to  one  accustomed  to 
hard  tack  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey. 

In  some  confusion  the  Sailor  produced  a  handful  of  sil- 
ver coins  from  his  amazing  trousers,  out  of  which  he  sol- 
emnly chose  a  Spanish  fourpenny. 

"Haven't  you  got  anything  English?"  she  asked,  burst- 
ing suddenly  into  a  laugh. 

Not  a  little  disconcerted,  the  Sailor  began  to  struggle 
85 


THE  SAILOR 

with  a  second  handful  of  coins  which  he  took  from  another 
pocket.  Blushing  to  the  tips  of  his  ears,  he  finally  tendered 
half  a  crown. 

"Two-and-two  change."  With  an  intent  smile  she 
marked  what  he  did  with  it. 

Having  stowed  away  the  two-and-twopence,  he  was  about 
to  carry  his  plate  of  bread  and  cheese  and  tankard  of  beer 
to  the  marble-topped  table  where  he  had  left  his  bundle, 
\vhen  the  lady  said,  in  a  royal  tone  of  gracious  command, 
"Why  not  sit  and  eat  it  here?" 

The  Sailor  would  have  been  the  last  young  man  in  the 
world  to  think  of  disobeying.  He  felt  a  little  thrill  creep 
down  his  spine  as  he  climbed  up  on  the  high  stool  exactly 
opposite  her.  It  was  the  sort  of  thrill  he  had  had  when 
under  the  aegis  of  Klondyke  he  had  carried  out  this  delicate 
social  maneuver  for  the  benefit  of  the  bar-ladies  of  Frisco, 
Liverpool,  and  Shanghai. 

At  first,  he  was  too  shy  to  eat. 

"Go  on.     Don't  mind  me,"  she  encouraged  him. 

An  intensive  politeness  caused  him  to  cut  his  bread  care- 
fully with  his  knife.  And  then  before  he  put  it  into  his 
mouth  he  said,  in  an  abrupt,  but  well  modulated  Klondyke 
manner,  "  'Scuse  me,  lady,  won't  yer  'ave  a  bite  yerself  ?" 

The  deferential  tone  belonged  to  the  mentor  of  his  youth, 
yet  the  speech  itself  seemed  to  owe  little  to  Eton  College. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Miss  Burton.  "I'm  not  hungry." 
And  then,  seeing  his  look  of  embarrassment,  "Now  get  on 
tvilh  it.  Don't  mind  me." 

This  was  a  woman  of  the  world.  She  was  a  ripe  student 
of  human  nature,  at  least  of  the  trousers-wearing  section 
of  human  nature.  Not  for  many  a  day  had  she  been  so  taken 
by  a  specimen  of  an  always  remarkable  genus  as  by  this  boy 
with  the  deep  eyes,  whose  clothes  and  speech  and  behavior 
were  like  nothing  on  earth. 

86 


THE  SAILOR 

A  true  amateur  of  the  male  sex,  she  watched  this  quaint 
specimen  eating  bread  and  cheese.  Presently  he  raised  his 
tankard  aloft,  said,  "Good  'ealth,  lady,"  in  a  shy  manner, 
and  drank  half  of  it  at  a  gulp. 

"When  are  you  going  to  sea  again?"  asked  Miss  Burton, 
conversationally. 

"Never  going  to  sea  no  more,"  said  the  young  man,  with 
a  strange  look  in  his  eyes. 

"What — never?"   She  seemed  surprised. 

"Never  no  more.  I'll  never  sail  agen  afore  the  mast. 
I'd  sooner  starve.  It's — it's " 

"It's  what?" 

"It's  hell,  lady." 

Miss  Burton  was  taken  aback  by  the  tone  of  conviction. 
After  all,  this  grotesque  young  sea  monster  was  no  true 
amphibian. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ashore  ?"  she  asked  after 
a  pause,  while  she  gazed  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"Dunno." 

"No  plans?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"Like  another  tankard  of  mild?" 

"Yes,  please,  lady." 

The  impact  of  the  bar-lady's  easy  and  familiar  style  had 
caused  a  rather  sharp  relapse  from  the  Klondyke  standard  of 
refinement,  but  not  for  a  moment  did  the  Sailor  forget  the 
dignity  of  her  estate.  In  spite  of  the  hybrid  words  he  used, 
the  note  of  subtle  deference  was  never  out  of  his  voice; 
and  Miss  Burton,  unconsciously  intrigued  by  it,  became 
even  more  interested  in  this  strange  product  of  the  high 
seas. 

"How  long  have  you  been  afloat?"  She  handed  him  a 
second  tankard  of  mild. 

"Near  six  year." 

87 


THE  SAILOR 

"Six  years.    Gracious  goodness!    And  you  didn't  like  it?" 

"No." 

For  some  reason,  the  look  in  his  eyes  caused  her  to  shiver 
a  little. 

"Why  did  you  stick  it,  then?" 

"Dunno." 

A  pause  followed.  Then  he  lifted  his  tankard  again, 
said,  "  'Ere's  lookin',  lady,"  and  drank  it  right  off. 

"Well,  you  are  a  rum  one,  you  are,  and  no  mistake," 
murmured  Miss  Burton,  not  to  the  Sailor,  but  to  the  beer 
engine  at  her  side. 


II 


AFTER  the  young  man  from  the  sea  had  drunk  his 
second  tankard  of  mild,  he  sat  on  the  high  stool  silent 
and  embarrassed.  He  was  hoping  that  the  gorgeous 
creature  opposite  would  continue  the  conversation,  but  he 
didn't  seem  to  know  how  to  encourage  her.  However,  as 
soon  as  a  powerful  feminine  intelligence  had  told  her  the 
state  of  the  case,  she  said  abruptly,  "Well,  and  what  are 
you  going  to  do  for  a  living  now  you've  retired  from  the 
sea?" 

He  gave  his  head  a  wistful  shake. 

The  gesture,  rather  pathetic  in  its  hopelessness,  touched 
Miss  Burton. 

"Well,  you  can't  live  on  air,  you  know." 

"No,  lady." 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Another  shake  of  the  head  was  the  only  answer,  but  as 
he  met  her  sympathetic  eyes,  an  inspiration  came  to  him. 

"Lady,"  he  said  humbly,  "you  don't  happen  to  know  of 
a  shack?" 

"Know  of  a  what!"  The  touch  of  acerbity  froze  him  at 
88 


THE  SAILOR 

once.  "Shack!"  Coming  to  his  assistance,  "What  on  earth's 
that?" 

"Lodgings,  clean  and  decent,  for  a  single  man."  The 
phrase  was  Klondyke's,  and  it  came  to  him  quite  oddly  at 
that  moment  in  all  its  native  purity.  His  mentor  had  a 
private  collection  of  such  phrases  which  he  used  to  roll  out 
for  his  own  amusement  when  he  went  ashore.  This  was  one. 
Henry  Harper  could  see  him  now,  pointing  to  a  dingy  card 
in  a  dingy  window  in  a  dingy  street,  in  some  miserable  sea- 
board suburb,  and  he  could  hear  him  saying,  "There  you 
are,  Sailor,  lodgings,  clean  and  decent,  for  a  single  man." 

Miss  Burton  pondered.  And  then  the  slow  smile  came 
again. 

"Well,  if  you  really  want  lodgings  clean  and  decent  for 
a  single  man  I  suppose  I  must  try  and  help  you,"  she  said 
graciously.  "But  I'm  afraid  I  shan't  be  much  use.  They 
are  not  quite  in  my  line." 

"No,  lady." 

"Still,  Fore  Street  is  full  of  them.  That's  the  second 
turn  to  the  left  and  then  the  first  on  the  right,  and  then  the 
first  on  the  right  again." 

"Yes,  lady." 

"You  might  try  No.  5 — or  No.  7 — or  No.  9 — but  Fore 
Street's  full  of  them." 

Miss  Burton  was  really  trying  to  be  helpful,  and  the 
young  seaman  was  very  grateful  to  her,  but  Klondyke  would 
have  known  at  once  that  "she  was  talking  out  of  the  back 
of  her  neck." 

Armed  with  this  valuable  information,  the  young  man 
got  off  his  high  stool  at  last,  raised  his  fur  cap  once  more, 
with  a  little  of  the  unconscious  grace  of  its  original  owner, 
said,  "So  long,  lady,"  collected  his  bundle  and  went  out  by 
the  side  door.  And  in  the  meantime,  the  bar-lady,  who  had 
marked  every  detail  of  his  going,  hardly  knew  whether  to 
89 


THE  SAILOR 

laugh  or  to  shed  tears.  This  was  the  queerest  being  she  had 
ever  seen  in  her  life. 

The  Sailor  managed  to  find  Fore  Street  after  taking  sev- 
eral wrong  turnings  and  asking  his  way  three  times.  And 
then  his  difficulties  really  began. 

Fore  Street  was  very  narrow,  very  long,  very  gloomy, 
very  dirty.  In  each  of  these  qualities  it  seemed  well  able  to 
compare  with  any  street  he  had  seen  in  Frisco,  in  Sydney, 
in  Liverpool,  or  even  in  Port  Said.  But  it  didn't  discour- 
age him.  After  all  he  had  never  been  used  to  anything 
else. 

The  first  house  in  Fore  Street  had  a  grimy  card  in  a 
grimier  window,  exactly  in  the  manner  to  rejoice  the  heart 
of  Klondyke.  Sailor,  who  had  forgotten  almost  every  syl- 
lable of  "book-learning"  he  ever  possessed — and  at  no  time 
had  he  been  the  possessor  of  many — leaped  at  once  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  legend  on  the  card  was,  "Lodgings,  clean 
and  decent,  for  a  single  man."  Unfortunately  it  was, 
"Dressmaking  done  here." 

A  very  modest  knock  was  answered  by  a  large  female  of 
truculent  aspect,  to  whom  he  took  off  his  cap,  while  she  stood 
looking  at  him  with  surprise,  wonder  and  inveterate  distrust 
of  mankind  in  general  and  of  him  in  particular  spreading 
over  her  like  a  pall. 

"Lodgings,  clean  and  decent,  for  a  single  man!" 

The  door  of  No.  I,  Fore  Street,  was  slammed  violently 
in  the  face  of  the  applicant. 

The  Sailor  nearly  shed  tears.  He  was  absurdly  sensitive 
in  dealing  with  the  other  sex  and  prone  to  be  affected  by  its 
hazards  and  vicissitudes.  However,  Auntie  of  the  long  ago 
surged  into  his  mind,  and  the  recollection  seemed  to  soften 
the  rebuff.  All,  even  of  that  sex,  were  not  bar-ladies,  sym- 
pathetic, smiling,  and  magnificent.  Therefore  he  took  cour- 
age to  knock  at  the  door  of  the  next  house  which  also  had 
90 


THE  SAILOR 

a  card  in  the  window.  But,  unfortunately,  that  again  was 
not  to  proclaim  lodgings,  clean  and  decent,  for  a  single 
man,  but  merely,  "A  horse  and  cart  for  hire." 

Here  the  blow,  again  from  the  quarter  which  knows  how 
to  deal  them,  was  equally  decisive.  A  creature,  blowsy  and 
unkempt,  told  him,  after  a  single  glance  at  his  fur  cap  and 
his  bundle  and  his  deep-sea-going  gear,  "that  if  he  didn't 
take  hisself  off  and  look  sharp  about  it  she'd  set  the  pleece 
on  him." 

At  this  second  rebuff  the  Sailor  stood  at  the  edge  of  the 
curb  for  some  little  time,  trying  to  pluck  up  spirit  to  grapple 
with  the  problem  of  the  next  card-bearing  domicile,  which 
happened  to  be  the  third  house  in  the  street.  He  felt  he  had 
begun  to  lose  his  bearings  a  bit.  It  had  come  upon  him  all 
at  once  with  great  force  that  he  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange 
land  whose  language  he  didn't  know. 

He  had  just  made  up  his  mind  to  tackle  the  next  card  in 
the  window,  let  the  consequences  be  what  they  might,  when 
he  felt  his  sleeve  plucked  by  a  small  urchin  of  nine  with  a 
preternaturally  sharp  and  racial  countenance. 

This  promising  product  of  the  world's  greatest  race,  one 
Moses  Gerothwohl  by  name,  had  had  an  eye  fixed  on  the 
fur  cap  ever  since  he  had  heard  its  owner  ask  at  the  first 
house  in  the  street  for  lodgings,  clean  and  decent,  for  a 
single  man.  This  was  undoubtedly  one  of  those  foreign 
sailors,  perhaps  a  Rooshian — a  Rooshian  was  the  very  high- 
est flight  of  which  the  imagination  of  Moses  Gerothwohl 
was  at  present  capable — who,  even  if  they  were  apt  to  get 
drunk,  on  queer  fluids  and  sometimes  went  a  bit  free  with 
their  knives,  were  yet  very  good-natured,  and  as  a  rule  were 
pretty  well  off  for  money. 

"Did  yer  sye,  mate,  yer  wanted  a  shakedown?"  said  Moses 
Gerothwohl,  plucking  at  the  sleeve  of  the  Sailor. 

The  Sailor  looked  down  at  the  urchin  and  nodded. 
7  91 


THE  SAILOR 

"Come  with  me,  then,"  said  Moses,  stoutly.  "And  I'll 
take  yer  to  my  grandma's." 

He  led  the  Sailor  through  a  perfect  maze  of  by-streets, 
and  through  a  nest  of  foul  courts  and  alleys,  until  at  last  he 
came  to  the  house  of  his  grandmother,  to  whom  he  presented 
the  foreign  seaman. 

She  was  not  very  prepossessing  to  look  at,  nor  was  her 
abode  enticing,  but  she  had  a  small  room  to  offer  which,  if 
not  over  clean  and  decidedly  airless,  contained  a  bed  of 
which  he  could  have  the  sole  use  for  the  reasonable  sum  of 
sixpence  a  night. 

The  young  man  accepted  the  terms  at  once  and  laid  his 
bundle  on  the  bed.  But  the  old  woman  did  not  accept  him 
with  equal  alacrity.  There  was  a  little  formality  to  be 
gone  through  before  the  transaction  could  be  looked  upon 
as  "firm."  It  was  usual  for  the  sixpence  to  be  paid  in  ad- 
vance. 

Grandma  was  one-fifth  tact,  three-fifths  determination, 
one-fifth  truculence,  and  the  whole  of  her  was  will  power  of 
a  very  concentrated  kind.  She  was  as  tough  as  wire,  and 
in  the  course  of  several  tense  and  vital  minutes,  during  which 
her  wolf's  eyes  never  left  Henry  Harper's  face,  that  fact 
came  home  to  him. 

It  took  nearly  five  minutes  for  the  Sailor  to  realize  that 
Grandma  was  waiting  for  something,  but  as  soon  as  he  did, 
the  way  in  which  he  bowed  to  fate  impressed  her  right  down 
to  the  depths  of  her  soul.  He  took  an  immense  handful  of 
silver  out  of  his  pocket,  the  hoarded  savings  of  six  years  of 
bitter  toil,  chose  one  modest  English  "tanner"  after  a 
search  among  many  values  and  nationalities,  and  handed  it 
over  with  a  polite  smile. 

The  old  woman  was  a  very  hard  nut  of  the  true  water- 
side variety,  but  the  sight  of  such  affluence  was  almost  too 
much  for  her.  Money  was  her  ruling  passion.  She  went 
92 


THE  SAILOR 

downstairs  breathing  hard,  and  with  a  deep  conviction  that 
Rothschild  himself  was  in  occupation  of  her  first  floor  front. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Sailor  had  seated  himself  on  the 
bed  at  the  side  of  his  bundle,  and  had  started  to  think  things 
out  a  bit.  This  was  a  long  and  tough  job.  Hours  passed. 
The  small,  stuffy,  evil-smelling  bedroom  grew  as  black  as 
pitch;  a  heavy  October  darkness  had  descended  upon  the 
strange  land  of  Wapping,  but  the  Sailor  was  still  thinking 
very  hard;  also  he  was  wondering  what  he  should  do  next. 

He.  hadn't  a  friend  on  the  wide  earth.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  which  he  could  turn  his  hand.  He  could  neither  read 
nor  write.  And  in  his  heart  he  had  a  subtle  fear  of  these 
queer  longshore  people,  although  he  had  sense  enough  to 
know  that  it  was  a  Sailor's  duty  to  trample  that  feeling 
under  foot.  One  who  six  long  years  had  sailed  before  the 
mast  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey  had  nothing  to  fear  in  hu- 
man shape. 

As  Henry  Harper  sat  on  that  patched  counterpane  in 
the  growing  October  darkness,  unloosing  that  strange  and 
terrible  thing,  the  mind  of  man,  he  was  not  merely  lonely, 
he  was  afraid.  Afraid  of  what?  He  didn't  know.  But 
as  the  darkness  grew  there  came  an  uncanny  feeling  under 
his  jersey.  It  seemed  to  stick  him  in  the  pit  of  the  stom- 
ach like  the  icy  blade  of  a  knife.  He  had  tasted  fear  in 
many  forms,  but  this  kind  of  stealing  coldness  was  some- 
thing new  and  something  different. 

It  grew  darker  and  darker  in  the  room.  The  sense  of 
loneliness  was  upon  him  now  like  a  living  presence.  There 
was  not  a  soul  in  the  world  to  whom  he  could  turn,  to 
whom  he  might  speak,  unless  it  was  the  old  woman  down- 
stairs. Yet  lonely  and  rather  terrified  as  he  was,  his  odd 
intuition  told  him  it  would  be  better  to  converse  with  no 
one  than  to  converse  with  her. 

At  last,  shivering  and  supperless,  although  his  pockets 
93 


THE  SAILOR 

were  heavy  with  silver  untold,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  turn 
in.  It  was  a  counsel  of  desperation.  He  was  sick  to  nausea 
with  the  business  of  thinking  about  nothing,  a  process  which 
began  in  nothing  and  ended  in  nothing;  and  at  last  with  a 
groan  of  misery,  he  pulled  off  his  boots  and  leggings,  but 
without  removing  his  clothes  stretched  himself  on  the  bed. 

If  he  could  have  had  his  wish  he  would  have  gone  to 
sleep,  never  to  awake  again.  But  he  could  only  lie  shiver- 
ing in  the  darkness  without  any  hope  of  rest.  Presently  a 
clock  struck  two.  And  then  he  thought  he  heard  a  creak  on 
the  stairs  and  shortly  afterwards  a  stealthy  footfall  outside 
his  door. 

He  had  never  been  anything  but  broad  awake.  But  these 
creeping  noises  of  the  night  seemed  to  string  up  every  sense 
he  had  to  a  point  that  was  uncanny.  He  held  his  breath  in 
order  to  listen — to  listen  like  a  frightened  animal  in  a 
primeval  forest  that  has  begun  to  sense  the  approach  of  a 
secret  and  deadly  foe. 

The  door  of  the  room  came  very  softly  open.  It  was  at 
the  side  of  the  bed,  and  he  could  not  see  it;  but  he  felt  an 
almost  imperceptible  vibration  in  the  airless  stuffiness  in 
which  he  lay.  Moreover,  a  breathing,  catlike  thing  had  en- 
tered the  room;  a  thing  he  could  neither  hear  nor  see.  It 
;  was  a  presence  of  which  he  was  made  aware  by  the  incan- 
descent forces  of  a  living  imagination. 

It  was  too  dark  to  see,  there  was  not  a  sound  to  hear,  but 
he  knew  there  was  a  breathing  shape  within  reach  of  his 
left  hand. 

Suddenly  his  hand  shot  out  and  closed  upon  it. 

He  caught  something  electric,  quivering,  alive.  But  what- 
ever it  was,  a  deadly  silence  contained  it.  There  was  not  a 
sound,  except  a  gasp,  as  of  one  who  has  made  a  sudden  plunge 
into  icy  water.  The  Sailor  lay  inert,  but  now  that  live 
thing  was  in  his  hand  he  was  not  afraid. 
94 


THE  SAILOR 

He  expected  a  knife.  Realizing  that  he  must  defend  his 
face  or  his  ribs  or  whatever  part  might  be  open  to  attack, 
he  knew  he  must  be  ready  for  the  blow. 

But  a  queer  thing  happened.  The  attack  was  not  made 
by  a  knife.  It  was  made  by  a  human  will.  As  he  lay  grap- 
pling in  the  darkness  with  his  visitor,  slowly  but  surely  he 
felt  himself  enfolded  by  an  unknown  power.  Such  a  force 
was  beyond  his  experience.  His  own  will  was  in  a  vice; 
there  was  a  deadly  struggle,  yet  neither  moved.  Not  a  sound 
was  uttered,  but  in  the  end  the  Sailor  nearly  screamed  with 
the  overmastering  tension  which  seemed  to  be  pressing  out 
his  life.  And  then  he  realized  that  his  hand  was  no  longer 
holding  the  thing  upon  which  it  had  closed. 

The  room  was  empty  again.  The  darkness  wras  too  great 
for  his  eyes  to  tell  him,  but  every  sense  he  had,  and  at  this 
moment  he  had  more  than  five,  seemed  to  say  that  whatever 
his  peril,  it  had  now  passed. 

He  sat  up  and  listened  tensely  through  the  still  open  door. 
He  thought  he  could  hear  the  creak  of  a  foot  on  the  stairs. 
Then  he  began  to  search  his  pockets  for  a  box  of  matches, 
and  suddenly  remembered  that  he  hadn't  one.  But  the  sense 
of  physical  danger  had  given  him  a  new  power  over  his  mind. 
He  was  now  terribly  alert. 

His  instinct  was  to  get  out  of  that  house  at  once.  But  a 
very  little  reflection  showed  that  such  a  course  was  not  neces- 
sary. It  was  only  an  old  woman  after  all. 


Ill 


REINFORCED  with  the  idea  that  an  old  woman 
with  wolf's  eyes  should  have  no  terrors  for  a  sailor, 
Henry  Harper  decided  to  stay  where  he  was,  until 
daylight  at  least.     In  the  absence  of  matches   and   local 
95 


THE  SAILOR 

knowledge  it  would  not  be  easy  to  find  a  way  out  of  the 
house  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  Moreover  if  he  drew  the 
chest  of  drawers  from  under  the  skylight,  which  was  too 
thickly  plastered  with  generations  of  grime  to  dispense  light 
from  the  sky  or  anywhere  else,  and  barricaded  the  door,  he 
could  not  be  taken  by  surprise  and  need  have  fear  of  none. 

He  decided  to  do  this.  With  arms  as  tough  as  steel,  he 
lifted  up  the  chest  of  drawers  bodily  and  dumped  it  with  a 
crash  against  the  door.  Let  Grandma  get  through  that  if 
she  could.  If  she  did,  God  help  her. 

Yes,  God  help  her.  The  Sailor  suddenly  took  from  his 
pocket  a  large,  bone-hafted  clasp  knife.  There  came  the 
friendly  click  of  the  opening  blade,  he  felt  the  well  ground 
edge  lightly  with  the  ball  of  his  thumb.  He  would  lie 
quietly  for  Grandma  in  comfort  and  in  simple  faith. 

What  a  fool  to  let  her  go!  ...  the  trusty  friend  in  his 
hand  was  speaking  to  him.  .  .  .  Had  you  forgotten  me? 
I'd  have  done  Grandma's  business  in  a  brace  of  shakes,  you 
know. 

The  Sailor,  aware  of  that,  felt  rather  sorry. 

But  in  a  little  while  there  was  another  voice  in  the  room. 
In  climbing  back  on  the  bed,  one  hand  touched  the  fur  cap 
which  lay  at  the  foot  of  it.  Instantly,  a  second  voice  spoke 
through  the  darkness. 

"No,  Sailor,  my  boy."  What  a  voice  it  was!  "It  ain't 
quite  white.  Put  your  knife  in  your  pocket,  old  friend. 
And  if  Grandma  calls  again  and  you  feel  you  must  set  your 
mark  on  her,  what's  wrong  with  your  ten  commandments, 
anyway  ?" 

The  tones  of  Klondyke  filled  the  darkness  with  their 
music. 

Sailor  obeyed  instinctively,  in  the  way  he  had  always 
done.  He  put  the  knife  back  in  his  pocket  with  a  gentle 
sigh. 

96 


THE  SAILOR 

The  dirty  dawn  of  a  wet  October  day  stole  on  the  young 
man's  eyes  as  he  was  attempting  a  doze  on  the  patched  coun- 
terpane with  his  sea-going  gear  around  him.  The  arrival 
of  an  honest  Wednesday  morning,  chill  and  dismal  as  it 
was,  dispelled  with  a  magic  that  seemed  ironical  any  linger- 
ing trace  he  might  have  of  his  night  fear  of  Grandma.  Was 
he  not  a  sailor  who  six  long  years  had  sailed  the  seas?  Had 
he  not  seen,  done  and  suffered  things  which  held  him  for- 
ever from  any  human  thrall? 

But  Henry  Harper  knew  better  than  to  ask  Grandma 
what  she  had  got  for  breakfast. 

He  chose  instead  to  sling  his  hook.  Gathering  his  truck 
back  into  its  bundle,  and  cramming  the  magic  cap  over  his 
eyes,  he  pulled  the  chest  of  drawers  away  from  the  bedroom 
door.  Then  as  soon  as  there  was  light  enough  to  see  the 
way  he  crept  down  the  creaking  stairs,  unlocked,  unbolted 
and  unchained  the  door  below,  and  slipped  out  into  Wednes- 
day morning. 

Wednesday  morning  received  him  with  a  chill  spatter  of 
rain.  He  stood  a  minute  on  the  cobbles  of  the  squalid  yard 
in  front  of  Grandma's  abode — wondering  where  he  was, 
what  he  should  do,  which  turn  he  should  take.  As  a  fact, 
there  was  only  one  turn  he  could  take,  and  that  lay  straight 
ahead  across  the  yard,  through  a  short  arched  passageway 
leading  to  a  maze  of  courts  and  alleys  which  led  heaven 
knew  where. 

He  proceeded  to  find  out.  Bundle  under  arm,  fur  cap 
over  eyes,  a  roll  in  his  gait,  the  Sailor  emerged  at  last  upon 
a  main  street,  at  present  only  half  awake.  But  it  contained 
a  thing  of  vast  importance:  a  policeman. 

The  Law  in  its  majesty  looked  at  the  Sailor.    The  Sailor 

in  his  simplicity  looked  at  the  majesty  of  the  Law.     There 

was  a  time,  six  long,  long  years  ago,  when  he  would  not 

have  ventured  such  a  liberty  with  the  most  august  of  hu- 

97 


THE  SAILOR 

man  institutions.  But  he  was  through  that  phase  of  his 
career.  By  comparison  with  all  the  stripes  that  had  since 
been  laid  upon  him  even  the  police  were  gentle  and  hu- 
mane. 

There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight  except  this  solemn  London 
bobby,  who  stood  four  square  in  the  Sailor's  path. 

"Mornin',  mister."  The  Sailor  lifted  his  cap,  partly 
from  a  sense  of  fraternity,  partly  from  a  proud  feeling  of 
being  no  longer  afraid  to  do  so. 

The  bobby  surveyed  the  strange  nondescript  that  had 
been  washed  up  by  the  tide  of  Wapping.  He  looked  gravely 
at  the  bundle  and  at  the  fur  cap,  and  then  decided  in  quite 
an  impersonal  way  not  to  return  their  owner's  salutation. 

The  Sailor  was  not  hurt  by  the  aloofness  of  the  Law. 
He  had  not  expected  anything  else.  After  all,  the  police 
were  the  police.  He  knew  that  a  gulf  of  several  hemi- 
spheres was  fixed  between  a  real  three-stripe  rozzer  of  the 
Metropolitan  Force  and  a  thing  it  had  pleased  fate  to  call 
by  the  name  of  Henry  Harper. 

"A  wrong  un,  I  expect,"  was  the  reflection  of  Constable 
H  23,  who  always  expected  a  wrong  un  at  that  hour  of  the 
morning.  Upon  the  spur  of  this  thought,  the  bobby  sud- 
denly turned  on  his  heel,  and  saw  the  wrong  un,  bundle, 
fur  cap  and  all,  crossing  the  road  like  an  early  morning  fox 
at  the  lure  of  a  favorite  hencoop.  Moreover,  he  was  cross- 
ing it  for  the  reason  that  he  was  frantically  hungry. 

Across  the  road,  at  a  junction  it  formed  with  three  others 
as  mean  and  dismal  as  itself,  was  a  sight  supremely  blessed  in 
the  eyes  of  the  Sailor.  It  was  nothing  less  than  a  coffee 
stall  in  the  panoply  of  matutinal  splendor.  Steaming  fluids, 
with  flames  glowing  under  them,  flanked  one  half  of  its 
counter;  rock  cakes,  ham  sandwiches,  beef  sandwiches,  rolls 
and  butter,  and  pork  pies,  splendidly  honest  and  genuine 
pork  pies,  flanked  the  other  half  of  it. 
98 


THE  SAILOR 

The  proprietor  of  the  stall,  an  optimist  in  white  apron 
and  shirt  sleeves,  being  unmistakably  of  the  male  sex  had 
no  terrors  for  the  Sailor.  Besides,  he  was  flushed  with  the 
knowledge  that  he  had  just  said  good  morning  to  the 
police. 

"Cup  o'  coffee,  mister,  and  one  o'  them." 

Nothing  less  than  a  pork  pie  could  meet  the  need  of  the 
Sailor.  Moreover,  he  dived  in  his  pocket,  took  the  first  coin 
that  came,  which  happened  to  be  half  a  crown,  and  laid  it 
with  true  Klondyke  magnificence  on  the  counter. 
'  The  proprietor  of  the  stall,  who  added  a  power  of  clear 
thinking  to  his  many  qualities,  appeared  to  see  in  the  action 
as  well  as  in  the  coin  itself,  a  declaration  of  financial  status 
on  the  part  of  the  young  seaman  in  the  remarkable  gear. 
Also  this  view  was  shared  by  the  only  one  of  his  early  morn- 
ing customers  who  happened  to  be  at  the  stall:  to  wit,  an 
almost  aggressively  capable  looking  and  slightly  bow-legged 
young  man  with  flaming  red  hair  and  ears  set  at  right  angles 
to  his  head,  who  was  devouring  a  pork  pie  with  quiet 
ferocity. 

A  single  glance  passed  between  Ike,  who  owned  the  stall, 
and  the  most  influential  of  his  patrons,  who  answered  to 
the  name  of  Ginger;  a  single  glance  and  that  was  all. 

"Nothing  smaller,  sonny?"  said  Ike,  smiling  and  pleasant. 
"Not  used  to  big  money  at  seven  g.m.  Penny  the  corfee  and 
two  pence  the  pie.  Three  d."  The  proprietor  raised  three 
fingers  and  beamed  like  a  seraph. 

Ginger  suspended  operations  on  the  pork  pie  to  see  what 
Dr.  Nansen  would  do  next. 

The  Sailor,  with  memories  of  Grandma  still  in  his  mind, 
put  back  the  half-crown  carefully  before  he  brought  out  any- 
thing else.  He  was  not  going  to  give  himself  away  this 
time.  Thus  he  went  warily  in  search  of  the  smallest  coin 
he  could  disentangle  from  the  welter  of  all  shapes  and  sizes» 
99 


THE  SAILOR 

of  all  values  and  countries,  which  had  been  disposed  in 
every  pocket  of  his  person.  At  last  he  produced  one  and 
laid  it  on  the  oilcloth  modestly,  as  though  he  merely  valued 
it  at  threepence.  But  in  that  part  of  the  world  it  wras  valued 
at  half  a  sovereign. 

"Rich  aunt,"  said  the  proprietor  of  the  stall,  with  respect- 
ful humor. 

The  young  man  with  the  flaming  hair  turned  half  about, 
pork  pie  in  hand,  to  get  a  better  view  of  Dr.  Nansen.  This 
close  observer  proceeded  to  chew  steadily  without  venturing 
any  remark. 

There  was  nothing  left  for  the  Sailor  but  to  give  away 
his  wealth  in  handfuls  now.  He  had  to  keep  diving  into  his 
secret  hoard,  which  out  of  deference  to  the  thought  of 
Grandma  he  was  still  determined  not  to  disclose  in  bulk 
and  sum.  Now  came  up  a  Spanish  fourpenny,  now  a  Yan- 
kee nickel,  now  a  Frenchman,  now  a  Dutchman,  now  a 
Mexican  half-dollar,  now  a  noble  British  quid.  For  sev- 
eral crowded  and  glorious  minutes,  Ike  and  the  most  in- 
fluential of  his  patrons  had  the  time  of  their  lives. 

"Thank  you,  Count,"  said  the  proprietor  of  the  stall 
urbanely,  when  at  last  the  owner  of  the  fur  cap  had  man- 
aged to  discharge  his  liability  in  coin  current  in  the  realm  of 
Great  Britain.  Then,  in  common  with  the  entranced  Gin- 
ger, he  watched  the  young  man  recruit  exhausted  nature. 

The  Sailor  having  made  short  and  clean  work  of  his  first 
pie  went  on  to  his  second,  then  to  his  second  cup  of  coffee, 
then  to  a  rock  cake,  then  to  a  ham  sandwich,  then  to  a  third 
cup  of  coffee,  then  to  a  third  pie,  when  Ike  and  Ginger,  his 
patron,  watched  with  ever  growing  respect.  And  then  came 
the  business  of  finding  ninepence,  and  with  it  a  second  sol- 
emn procession  of  Yankees  and  Dutchmen  and  Spaniards 
and  Mexicans,  which  roused  the  respect  of  Ginger  and  Ike 
to  such  a  pitch  that  it  became  almost  unbearable. 
IOO 


THE  SAILOR 

"See  here,  Vanderbilt!"  said  Ike  at  last,  yielding  reluc- 
tantly the  hope  that  the  young  plutocrat  would  ever  hit  the 
exact  coin  that  would  meet  the  case.  "Dig  up  that  half 
dollar.  Me  and  Ginger" — a  polite  grimace  at  Ginger — 
"can  make  up  one-and-nine." 

Ginger,  divided  between  the  reserve  of  undoubted  sociaf 
position — he  was  earning  good  money  down  at  the  docks — 
and  an  honest  desire  to  make  himself  agreeable  in  such 
romantic  circumstances,  warily  produced  a  grimy  and  war- 
worn sixpence  and  handed  it  across  the  counter,  looking  Ike 
straight  in  the  eyes  as  he  did  so. 

"Any  use?"  said  Ginger,  calm,  aloof,  and  casual. 

In  the  meantime  the  Sailor  had  begun  the  search  for  his 
half-crown.  Ginger  and  Ike  waited  hopefully,  and  in  the 
end  they  were  rewarded.  The  Sailor  found  it  at  last,  but 
not  before  he  had  made  an  end  of  all  secrecy.  In  sheer  des- 
peration he  disclosed  handfuls  of  his  hoard. 

"Thank  yer,  Count.    One-and-nine  change,"  said  Ike. 


IV 


THE  Sailor,  fortified  by  one  of  the  best  breakfasts  of 
his  life,  politely  said  "Mornin'  "  to  the  proprietor 
of  the  coffee  stall  with  a  lift  of  the  cap  not  ungrace- 
ful, adding  a  slightly  modified  ritual  for  the  benefit  of  Gin- 
ger, and  stepped  out  again  into  the  world. 

Ike  and  Ginger,  his  patron,  turned  to  watch  the  Sailor 
go.  Neither  spoke,  but  with  eyes  that  glowed  in  the  gray 
light  of  the  morning  like  those  of  a  couple  of  healthly  basil- 
isks, they  marked  all  that  the  young  man  did.  The  Sailor 
walked  into  the  middle  of  the  road  to  the  point  where  four 
arteries  of  traffic  met,  and  then  hesitation  overcame  him 
as  to  what  he  should  do  next.  For  a  little  while,  he  stood 
101 


THE  SAILOR 

looking  up  one  street  and  down  another  with  an  expression 
of  bewilderment  upon  his  face. 

"So  long,"  said  Ginger  to  Ike. 

The  proprietor  of  the  stall  had  now  none  to  share  his 
thoughts.  He  saw  Ginger,  assured  but  wary,  saunter  up  to 
the  Sailor  as  he  stood  at  gaze ;  saw  him  touch  the  young  man 
on  the  shoulder  as  if  by  chance  rather  than  design ;  saw  him 
speak  words  which,  bend  across  the  counter  as  he  might,  he 
was  too  far  away  to  catch. 

"Lookin'  for  anything?"  were  the  words  that  Ginger 
spoke.  Moreover,  he  spoke  them  blandly,  yet  with  such  a 
subdued  air  that  he  might  have  been  talking  in  his  sleep. 
The  Sailor,  whose  eyes  were  far  away  in  the  gray  mists  of 
the  morning,  was  looking  for  nothing,  it  seemed. 

"Which  way  you  goin'?"  asked  Ginger,  in  the  same  tone 
of  mild  somnambulism. 

"Dunno,"  said  the  Sailor,  his  eyes  farther  away  than 
ever. 

"Don't  know,"  repeated  Ginger. 

At  this  point,  he  ventured  to  look  very  hard  and  straight 
into  the  face  of  the  Sailor.  His  knowledge  of  the  human  race 
was  pretty  considerable  for  one  of  his  years,  and  there  was 
something  about  the  wearer  of  the  fur  cap  that  interested 
him.  The  face  under  it  was  fine-drawn,  much  tanned  by 
the  weather,  open  as  the  sky.  Ginger  then  flung  an  expert's 
eye  over  the  lean  length  of  blue  jersey  which  surmounted  a 
grotesque  pair  of  leggings. 

"You  don't  know,"  said  Ginger.  "Well,  suppose  you 
walk  as  far  as  the  docks?" 

The  Sailor  didn't  seem  to  mind. 

"Been  long  at  sea?"  inquired  Ginger,  as  with  intimate 
local  knowledge  he  piloted  the  young  man  through  a  series 
of  short  cuts. 

"Six  year." 

102 


THE  SAILOR 

"Have  ye  so!"  Ginger  was  surprised  ?  nd  impressed. 
"Like  it?" 

The  eyes  of  the  Sailor  looked  straight  down  into  those  of 
Ginger.  But  he  didn't  say  anything. 

"You  didn't  like  it?" 

"No." 

"Why  did  you  stick  it,  then?" 

"Dunno." 

The  conversation  languished  a  moment,  but  Ginger's  cu- 
riosity was  increasing. 

"Still  f oiler  the  sea?" 

"No." 

"What's  yer  job?" 

"Ain't  got  one." 

Ginger  stroked  a  resolute  jaw. 

"Lookin'  for  a  billet?" 

"Yep." 

"Ashore?" 

The  Sailor  nodded. 

"Better  come  with  me,  then,"  said  Ginger,  with  an  air 
of  decision.  "Dare  say  we  can  fix  you  at  our  shop.  Fifteen 
bob  a  week  .  .  .  fifteen  bob  and  a  tizzey  ...  if  you  leave 
it  ter  me." 

The  heart  of  the  Sailor  leaped  under  his  jersey.  This 
was  big  money  as  money  was  understood  aboard  the  Mar- 
garet Carey. 

At  the  end  of  a  narrow  street  they  came  suddenly  upon 
the  dock  gates.  Through  these  on  the  left,  then  to  the  left 
again,  and  then  to  the  right  was  the  private  wharf  of  Ant- 
cliff  and  Jackson,  Limited,  and  also  at  Hull  and  Grimsby. 
Ginger,  having  told  the  Sailor  tersely  to  wait  outside,  en- 
tered the  decrepit  wooden  office  at  the  entrance  to  the  wharf, 
with  the  air  of  a  partner  in  the  firm.  After  he  had  had 
two  minutes'  conversation  with  a  melancholy  individual  with 
103 


THE  SAILOR 

a  red  nose  and  a  celluloid  collar,  he  beckoned  to  the  Sailor 
to  come  inside. 

The  Sailor  entered  the  office  like  a  man  in  a  dream. 

"Name?"  said,   or  rather   snapped,   the   Individual. 

"Enry  Arper." 

The  Individual  took  down  the  time  book  from  the  rack 
above  his  head  with  a  vehemence  that  seemed  quite  uncalled 
for,  opened  it  savagely,  dipped  a  pen  in  a  cracked  inkpot 
and  dashed  down  the  name  ferociously. 

"Sign." 

The  Sailor  took  up  the  pen  coolly  and  with  a  sense  of 
power.  The  Individual  was  a  mere  babe  at  the  breast 
compared  to  Mr.  Thompson  and  the  Old  Man.  Moreover, 
the  ability  to  sign  his  name  was  his  one  literary  accomplish- 
ment and  he  was  honorably  proud  of  it.  Klondyke  had 
taught  him  that,  and  he  had  hung  on  for  all  he  was  worth  to 
such  a  priceless  asset.  H-e-n  with  a  Hen,  r-y  Henry,  H-a-r 
with  a  Har,  p-e-r  Harper —  the  letters  were  formed  very 
carefully  with  his  tongue  sticking  out  of  his  mouth. 

Ginger,  rather  impressed  by  the  insouciance  of  the  whole 
proceeding,  then  led  the  Sailor  across  the  yard  to  his  duties. 
He  wasn't  quite  such  a  guy  as  he  looked.  There  was  some- 
thing there  it  seemed;  something  that  went  pretty  deep. 
Ginger  noted  it  not  unfavorably.  He  was  all  for  depth. 
He  was  a  great  believer  in  depth. 

The  Sailor  was  informed  by  this  new  and  providential 
friend  that  he  had  stood  out  for  the  princely  emolument  of 
seventeen  and  a  tizzey,  and  had  been  able  to  get  it.  This 
was  big  money  for  his  rank  of  life,  but  his  occupation  was 
menial.  He  had  to  haul  sacks,  to  load  and  unload  cargoes. 
Still  he  didn't  complain.  It  was  the  life  of  a  gentleman 
in  comparison  with  being  afloat  on  the  high  seas. 

To  be  sure  his  money  was  not  as  big  as  it  looked.  He 
had  to  live  out  of  it  and  to  find  a  berth  to  sleep  in  at  night. 
104 


THE  SAILOR 

But  making  every  allowance  for  longshore  extravagance 
there  could  be  no  doubt  that  this  new  existence  was  sheer 
luxury  after  six  years  of  Sing  and  wet  hash  and  hard-tack 
and  a  bed  in  the  half-deck  of  the  Margaret  Carey. 

Dinner  time  came  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  under  the  asgif 
of  Ginger,  the  Sailor  walked  up  the  main  street  once  more 
to  Ike's  coffee  stall,  and  at  Ginger's  expense  had  as  much 
as  he  could  eat  for  sixpence.  He  wanted  to  pay  his  own 
shot  and  Ginger's  also,  but  Ginger  simply  would  not  hear 
of  such  a  thing.  This  was  His,  he  said  firmly;  and  when 
Ginger  spoke  firmly  it  generally  had  to  be  His  whatever  it 
was  or  might  be.  It  was  nice  of  Ginger;  all  the  same  that 
paladin  was  far-sighted,  he  was  clear-headed,  he  was  sure 
and  cool.  What  Ginger  didn't  know  was  not  knowledge, 
and  it  was  no  less  a  person  than  Ike  who  said  so. 

For  example,  after  dinner,  which  took  exactly  twelve 
minutes  by  the  clock  of  the  Booteries  across  the  road  and 
opposite  the  stall,  Ginger  remarked  almost  in  the  manner  of 
one  who  communes  with  his  subliminal  self,  "There's  one 
thing  yer  wantin'." 

The  Sailor  looked  incredulous.  At  that  moment  he  felt 
it  was  not  in  the  power  of  wide  earth  or  high  heaven  to  offer 
him  anything  further. 

"You  want  a  belt  for  your  brass."  Ginger  spoke  behind 
his  hand  in  a  whisper.  "Mon't  carry  it  loose.  Wear  it 
round  your  waist,  next  your  skin.  Money's  money." 

Ike,  absorbed  in  the  polite  occupation  of  brushing  stray 
crumbs  of  rock  cake  from  the  strip  of  grimy  oilcloth  which 
graced  the  counter,  was  so  much  impressed  by  Ginger's 
grasp  of  mind  that  he  had  the  misfortune  to  bring  down 
a  jubilee  mug  with  his  elbow,  without  breaking  it,  fortu- 
nately. 

Ginger  laid  such  emphasis  upon  the  point  that  the  Sailor 
accompanied  him  across  the  street  to  Grewcock's  emporium, 
105 


THE  SAILOR 

where  body  belts  were  kept  in  stock.  A  careful  survey  of  all 
to  be  found  on  the  premises,  together  with  an  examination, 
equally  careful,  of  their  prices  convinced  Ginger  that  better 
value  for  the  money  could  be  had  elsewhere.  Thus  they 
withdrew  lower  down  the  street  to  Tollemache  and  Pear- 
son's, where  unfortunately  the  scale  of  charges  was  even 
higher. 

This  was  discouraging,  but  there  was  a  silver  lining  to  the 
cloud.  It  appeared  that  Ginger  had  a  belt,  which  in  his  own 
opinion  was  far  superior  to  anything  they  had  yet  seen;  it 
was  Russia  leather  of  the  finest  quality  and  he  was  willing 
to  sell  it  for  less  than  it  cost  if  the  Sailor  was  open  to  the 
deal.  The  Sailor  was  not  averse  from  doing  business,  as 
Ginger  felt  sure  would  be  the  case,  when  the  material  advan- 
tages had  been  pointed  out  to  him.  But  as  Ginger  had  not 
the  belt  upon  him  he  suggested  that  they  should  call  at  his 
lodgings  on  their  way  back  to  the  docks  in  order  that  the 
Sailor  might  inspect  it. 

Ginger's  lodgings  were  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the 
wharf  of  Antcliff  and  Jackson,  Limited.  Not  only  were 
they  very  clean  and  comfortable,  but  also  remarkably  con- 
venient; in  fact,  they  were  most  desirable  lodgings  in  every 
way.  Their  only  drawback  was  they  were  not  cheap. 
Otherwise  they  were  first  class. 

By  a  coincidence  the  Sailor,  it  seemed,  was  in  need  of 
good  lodgings  as  well  as  a  belt  for  his  money.  Before  he 
returned  to  the  wharf  of  Antcliff  and  Jackson,  Limited,  at 
one  o'clock,  he  had  been  provided  with  things  so  necessary 
to  his  comfort,  well-being,  and  social  status. 


E    Sailor   paid    six-and-six    for    the    belt   of    Russia 
leather,   and   in  Ginger's  opinion   that  was  as  good 
1 06 


THE  SAILOR 

as  getting  it  for  nothing.  Also  he  agreed  to  share  bed 
and  board  with  Ginger  for  the  sum  of  twelve  shillings 
a  week.  It  was  top  price,  Ginger  allowed,  but  then  the 
accommodation  was  extra.  Out  of  the  window  of  the  bed- 
room you  could  pitch  a  stone  into  the  wharf  of  Antcliff  and 
Jackson,  Limited. 

This  arrangement,  in  Ginger's  opinion,  was  providential 
for  both  parties.  Such  lodgings  would  have  been  beyond 
Ginger's  means  had  he  been  unable  to  find  a  decent  chap 
to  share  them  with  him.  Then  the  Sailor  was  young,  in 
Ginger's  opinion,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  been  six 
years  at  sea.  It  would  be  a  great  thing  in  Ginger's 
opinion  for  so  young  a  sailor  to  be  taken  in  hand  by  a  lands- 
man of  experience  until  he  got  a  bit  more  used  to  terrier 
firmer. 

So  much  was  the  Sailor  impressed  by  Ginger's  disinter- 
estedness that  at  six  o'clock  that  evening,  when  his  first  day's 
work  was  done,  he  brought  his  gear  from  the  wharf  to  No. 
I,  Paradise  Alley.  Ginger  superintended  its  removal  in  the 
manner  of  an  uncle  deeply  concerned  for  the  welfare  of  a 
favorite  nephew.  Indeed  this  was  Ginger's  permanent  at- 
titude to  the  Sailor  from  this  time  on;  all  the  same,  he 
received  twelve  shillings  in  advance  for  a  week's  board  and 
lodging.  Uncle  and  nephew  then  sat  down  to  a  high  tea  of 
hot  sausages,  with  unlimited  toast  and  dripping,  before  a 
good  fire,  in  a  front  parlor  so  clean  and  comfortable  that 
the  mind  of  the  Sailor  was  carried  back  a  long  six  years 
to  Mother  and  the  Foreman  Shunter. 

When  Henry  Harper  sat  down  to  this  meal  with  Ginger 
opposite,  and  that  philanthropist  removed  the  cover  from 
three  comely  sausages,  measured  them  carefully  and  helped 
the  Sailor  to  the  larger  one-and-a-half,  his  first  thought  was 
that  he  was  now  as  near  heaven  as  he  was  ever  likely  to  get. 
What  a  change  from  the  food,  the  company,  and  the  squalor 
8  107 


THE  SAILOR 

of  the  Margaret  Carey!  Klondyke  himself  could  not  have 
handed  him  the  larger  sausage-and-a-half  with  an  air  more 
genuinely  polite.  There  was  a  self-possession  about  Ginger 
that  was  almost  as  wine  and  music  to  the  torn  soul  of 
Henry  Harper. 

As  the  Sailor  sat  eating  his  sausage-and-a-half  and  after 
the  manner  of  a  sybarite  dipping  in  abundant  gravy  the 
perfectly  delicious  toast  and  dripping,  he  felt  he  would  never 
be  able  to  repay  the  debt  he  already  owed  to  Ginger.  That 
floating  hell  which  had  been  his  home  for  six  long  years, 
that  other  hell  the  native  haunt  of  Auntie  where  all  his 
early  childhood  had  been  passed,  even  that  more  contiguous 
hell  in  the  next  street  but  two,  the  abode  of  Grandma, 
were  this  evening  a  thousand  miles  away.  Just  as  the  mere 
presence  of  Klondyke  had  once  given  him  courage  and  self- 
respect  which  in  his  darkest  hours  since  he  had  never  alto- 
gether lost,  so  now,  after  such  a  meal,  the  mere  sight  of  Gin- 
ger sitting  at  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  smoking  Log  Cabin, 
put  him  in  new  heart,  touched  him,  if  not  with  a  sense  of  joy, 
with  a  sense  of  hope. 

As  became  a  man  of  parts  Ginger  was  not  content  to  sit 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening  smoking  Log  Cabin  and  gazing 
into  the  fire.  At  a  quarter  past  seven,  by  the  cuckoo  cloclc 
on  the  chimneypiece,  there  came  a  knock  at  the  outer  door 
of  the  room  which  opened  on  the  street.  This  was  to  herald 
the  arrival  of  Ginger's  own  private  newspaper,  the  Evening 
Mercury,  which  had  been  brought  by  a  tattered  urchin  of 
nine,  of  whom  the  Sailor  caught  a  passing  glimpse,  and  as 
in  a  glass  darkly  beheld  his  former  self. 

In  the  eyes  of  the  Sailor  hardly  anything  could  have  min- 
istered so  much  to  Ginger's  social  position  as  that  every 
evening  of  his  life,  Sundays  excepted,  his  own  newspaper 
should  be  delivered  at  No.  I,  Paradise  Alley.  It  was  im- 
possible for  the  Sailor  to  forget  his  early  days  in  spite  of  the 
108 


THE  SAILOR 

fact  that  fortune  had  come  to  him  now  in  a  miraculous  way. 
His  world  was  still  divided  into  those  who  sold  papers  and 
those  who  bought  them.  Ginger  clearly  belonged  to  the 
latter  exclusive  and  princely  caste.  He  was  of  the  class  of 
Klondyke — of  Klondyke  who  in  his  shore-goings  in  the 
uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  behaved  in  an  indescribably 
regal  and  plutocratic  manner.  Sometimes  it  had  appeared 
to  the  Sailor,  such  were  the  amazing  uses  to  which  Klondyke 
had  put  his  money,  that  the  earth  was  his  and  all  the  lands 
and  the  waters  thereof. 

Ginger's  ideas  were  not  as  princely  as  those  of  Klon- 
dyke ;  that  was,  in  regard  to  money  itself.  He  did  not  throw 
money  about  in  the  way  that  Klondyke  did,  nor  had  he  Klon- 
dyke's  air  of  genial  magnificence  which  vanquished  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men  and  women.  But  in  their  own  way 
Ginger's  ideas  were  quite  as  imperial. 

As  soon  as  Ginger  opened  his  evening  paper  he  remarked, 
with  a  short  whistle,  "I  see  Wednesday  has  beat  the  Villa." 

"No,"  said  the  incredulous  Sailor. 

It  was  an  act  of  politeness  on  the  part  of  the  Sailor  to  be 
incredulous.  He  might  have  accepted  the  fact  without  any 
display  of  emotion.  But  he  felt  it  was  due  to  his  feelings 
that  he  should  make  some  kind  of  comment,  for  they  had 
been  stirred  considerably  by  the  victory  of  \Vednesday  over 
the  Villa. 

"Win  by  much?"  asked  the  Sailor,  his  heart  suddenly 
beginning  to  beat  under  his  seaman's  jersey. 

"Three  two,"  said  Ginger. 

"At  Brum?" 

"No,  at  Sheffle,  in  foggy  weather,  on  a  holdin'  turf." 

The  Sailor's  eyes  glowed.  And  then  with  his  chin  in  his 
hands  he  gazed  deep  into  the  fire. 

"I  once  seen  the  Villa,"  he  said  in  a  dreaming  voice.    It 
was  the  proudest  memory  of  his  life. 
109 


THE  SAILOR 

Ginger  withdrew  his  mind  from  a  consideration  of  the 
Police  Report  and  the  latest  performances  of  the  Govern- 
ment. 

"At  the  Palace?"  Ginger's  tone  was  deep  as  becomes 
one  entering  upon  an  epic  subject. 

"No,"  said  the  Sailor,  the  doors  of  memory  unlocked, 
"At  Blackhampton.  The  Villa  come  to  play  the  Rovers. 
My!  they  could  play  a  bit.  Won  the  Cup  that  year.  Me 
and  young  Arris  climbed  a  tree  overlookin'  the  ground. 
Young  Arris  got  pinched  by  a  rozzer." 

Ginger  was  not  impressed  by  the  reminiscence.  It  seemed 
a  pity  that  a  chap  who  had  been  six  years  before  the  mast, 
and  not  a  bad  sort  of  fellow,  should  give  himself  away  like 
that.  From  the  style  and  manner  of  the  anecdote  it  was 
clear  to  this  exact  thinker  that  the  Sailor  had  begun  pretty 
low  down  in  the  scale.  In  the  pause  which  followed  the 
Sailor  shivered  like  a  warhorse  who  hears  the  battle  from 
afar.  The  memories  of  his  youth  were  surging  upon  him. 
In  the  meantime,  Ginger,  who  appeared  to  be  frowning  over 
the  Government  and  the  Police  news,  was  watching  the 
Sailor's  eyes  very  intently.  He  was  watching  those  strange 
eyes  with  a  cool  detachment. 

"Enery,"  said  Ginger,  choosing  his  words  carefully,  "if 
I  was  you,  do  you  know  what  I'd  do?" 

Enery  didn't. 

"I'd  very  seriously  be  considerin'  how  I  could  earn  my 
four  quid  a  week." 

The  Sailor  smiled  sadly.  He  knew  from  cold  experience 
that  such  a  remark  was  sheer  after-supper  romance.  Still  it 
must  be  very  nice  to  own  a  mind  like  Ginger's,  which  could 
weave  such  fantasy  about  the  facts  of  life. 

"If  I  was  you,"  proceeded  Ginger,  "I  wouldn't  sleep  in 
my  bed  until  I  was  earnin'  my  four  quid  a  week,  winter  and 
summer." 

no 


THE  SAILOR 

The  Sailor  who  knew  the  price  exacted  in  blood  and 
tears  to  earn  a  pound  a  month  could  only  smile. 

"I'm  goin'  out  for  it  meself,"  said  Ginger.  "And  I'm 
not  so  tall  as  you.  And  I  haven't  your  make  and  shape,  I 
haven't  your  turn  o'  the  leg,  I  haven't  your  arms  an'  wrisses." 

Ginger  might  have  been  speaking  Dutch  for  all  that  the 
Sailor  could  follow  the  emanations  of  his  remarkable  intel- 
lect. 

"See  here," — an  unnecessary  adjuration  since  the  Sailor 
was  looking  in  solemn  wonder  with  both  eyes — "my  pal 
Dinkie  Dawson  has  just  been  engaged  for  three  years  by  the 
Blackhampton  Rovers  at  four  thick  uns  a  week.  Fact." 

The  Sailor  didn't  doubt  it.  The  very  genius  of  scepticism 
would  have  respected  such  an  announcement. 

"Dinkie  Dawson,  if  you  please,"  said  Ginger.  "Why, 
I  used  to  punch  his  head  fearful.  He  did  my  ciphering  at 

school — an'  now — an'  now !"  Ginger  was  overcome  by 

emotion.  "But  if  a  mug  like  Dink — yes,  mark  you,  a  mug 
can  earn  big  money,  I'm  sort  of  thinkin'  that  puts  it  right 
up  to  William  Herbert  Jukes,  Esquire." 

The  eyes  of  the  Sailor  glowed  like  stars  in  the  light  of  the 
fire.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  had  heard  the  flutter  of  the 
wings  of  destiny.  As  a  boy  of  nine  flying  shoeless  and  stock- 
ingless  through  the  icy  mud  of  Blackhampton,  bawling,  "Re- 
sult of  the  Cup  tie,"  he  had  felt  deep  in  his  heart  the  first 
stab  of  ambition.  One  day  he  would  help  the  Rovers  bring 
the  Cup  to  his  native  city.  That  was  no  more  than  a  dream. 
The  Rovers  were  heroes  and  supermen — not  that  Henry 
Harper  was  able  to  formulate  them  in  terms  of  psychological 
accuracy.  And  here  was  Ginger,  a  new  and  very  remark- 
able friend,  whom  fate  had  thrown  across  his  path,  seated 
within  three  yards  of  him,  setting  his  soul  on  fire. 

"Why  not?"  There  was  no  fire  in  the  soul  of  Ginger. 
His  voice  was  arctic  cold,  but  the  purpose  in  it  was  deadly, 
ill 


THE  SAILOR 

"If  a  guy  like  Dink,  why  not  me?"  A  slight  pause.  "And 
if  Ginger  Jukes,  who  is  five  foot  six  an'  draws  the  beam  at 
eleven  stun  in  his  birthday  suit,  why  not  Mr.  Enery  Arper?" 
And  Ginger  looked  across  at  the  Sailor  almost  with  pity. 

The  heart  of  the  Sailor  began  to  thump  violently.  And 
there  came  something  soft  and  large  in  his  throat. 

"How  tall  are  you,  Sailor?  Six  foot?"  The  eye  of  an 
expert  traversed  the  finely  turned  form. 

"Thereabouts." 

"What's  your  fighting  weight  in  the  buff?" 

"Dunno." 

"Ought  to  know  to  a  hounce.  But  it  don't  matter. 
You'll  thicken.  How  old  next  birthday?" 

"Nineteen." 

"That's  a  good  age.    Wish  I  was.    I'm  one  and  twenty." 

The  Sailor  thought  he  looked  more. 

"I'm  a  lot  more  in  some  things,"  said  Ginger.  "But  at 
football  I  shall  not  be  one  and  twenty  until  the  middle  o' 
Janawerry." 

The  Sailor  was  a  little  out  of  his  depth.  There  was  a 
subtlety  about  Ginger  that  went  far  beyond  anything  he  had 
ever  met.  Even  Klondyke,  great  man  as  he  was,  seemed  a 
mere  child  by  comparison  with  this  forcible  thinker. 

"Nineteen  is  just  the  age,"  said  Ginger,  "to  learn  to  chuck 
yerself  about.  But  I  dare  say  you  know  how  to  do  that, 
having  follered  the  sea." 

"I  can  climb  a  bit,"  the  Sailor  admitted  with  great  mod- 
esty. 

"Can  yer  jump?" 

The  Sailor  could  jump  a  bit  too. 

"Could  you  throw  yerself  at  the  ball  like  a  rattlesnake 
if  you  see  it  fizzing  for  the  fur  corner  o'  the  net?" 

The  Sailor's  modesty  could  not  hazard  an  opinion  on  a 
matter  of  such  technical  complexity. 
112 


THE  SAILOR 

"I  expect  so,"  said  Ginger,  with  a  condescension  that  was 
most  agreeable.  "You  are  just  the  build  for  a  goalkeeper. 
If  it's  fine  tomorrow  dinner-hour,  we'll  put  you  through 
your  paces  on  Cox's  Piece.  I'm  thinkin',  Enery,  you  and  me 
will  soon  be  out  after  that  four  quid.  Anyhow,  I'll  answer 
for  Mr.  W.  H." 

With  the  air  of  a  Bismarck,  Mr.  W.  H.  Jukes,  alias; 
Ginger,  resumed  an  extremely  concentrated  perusal  of  the 
evening's  news. 


VI 


THAT  night  the  repose  of  the  Sailor  was  rather  dis- 
turbed. For  one  thing  he  was  unused  to  sleeping  on 
dry  land;  for  another  Ginger  took  up  a  lot  of  the 
bed,  and  as  he  slept  next  the  wall,  the  Sailor's  position  on 
the  outer  verge  was  decidedly  perilous.  Also  when  Ginger 
lay  on  his  back,  which  he  did  about  two,  he  was  a  snorer. 
Therefore  the  Sailor  had  to  adjust  himself  to  circumstances 
before  he  could  begin  to  repose  at  all. 

Even  when  slumber  had  really  set  in,  which  was  not  until 
after  three,  he  had  to  wriggle  his  lean  form  into  the  famous 
but  very  tight  jersey  of  the  Blackhampton  Rovers,  the  his- 
toric blue  and  chocolate.  But  what  a  moment  it  was  when 
he  came  proudly  on  to  the  field  in  the  midst  of  the  heroes  of 
his  early  dreams,  coolly  buttoning  his  goalkeeping  gloves, 
and  pretending  not  to  be  aware  that  thousands  were  massed 
tier  upon  tier  around  the  amphitheater  craning  their  necks 
to  get  a.  glimpse  of  him,  and  shouting  themselves  hoarse  with 
their  cries  of  battle! 

It  was  odd  that  his  first  game  with  his  beloved  Rovers 
should  be  against  the  doughtiest  of  their  foes,  the  world- 
famous  Villa.  And  it  seemed  at  first  that  the  occasion 
would  be  too  much  for  him.  But  Ginger  was  there,  ruddy 


THE  SAILOR 

and  insouciant,  also  in  a  magnificent  new  jersey.  Ginger 
was  playing  full  back,  and  just  as  the  match  was  about  to 
begin  he  turned  round  to  the  goalkeeper  and  said,  "Now, 
Sailor,  pull  up  your  socks,  old  friend."  But  the  queer  thing 
was,  the  voice  did  not  belong  to  Ginger,  it  was  the  voice  of 
Klondyke.  Then  confusion  came.  It  was  not  Ginger,  it 
was  Klondyke  himself  who  was  playing  full  back,  Klondyke 
the  noblest  hero  of  them  all.  So  much  was  the  Sailor  as- 
tonished by  the  discovery  that  he  fell  out  of  bed,  without 
disturbing  Ginger  who  was  in  occupation  of  three  parts  of 
it  and  snoring  like  a  traction  engine. 

Next  day,  the  dinner-hour  being  fine,  the  Sailor  made  his 
debut  as  a  football  player  on  Cox's  Piece  in  the  presence  of 
a  critical  assembly.  A  number  of  the  choicest  spirits  of  the 
neighborhood,  some  in  work,  some  out  of  it,  but  one  and  all 
fired  with  real  enthusiasm  for  a  noble  game,  gathered  with 
a  football  about  a  quarter  past  twelve.  This  was  a  stal- 
wart company,  but  as  soon  as  Ginger  appeared  on  the  scene 
he  took  sole  command  of  it.  There  were  those  who  could 
kick  a  football  as  well  as  he,  there  were  those  who  were 
older,  bigger,  stronger,  but  by  sheer  pressure  of  character 
in  that  assembly  Ginger's  word  was  law. 

"Parkins,"  said  Ginger,  "you  can't  keep  goal.  Come 
out  of  it,  Parkins.  Here's  a  chap  as  can." 

While  the  crestfallen  and  unwilling  Parkins  deferred  to 
the  master  mind,  a  wave  of  solemn  curiosity  passed  through 
the  cognoscenti  of  Cox's  Piece.  The  Sailor  was  seen  to  doff 
his  wonderful  fur  cap,  which  alone  was  a  guaranty  of 
untold  possibilities  in  its  wearer,  to  roll  up  solemnly  the 
sleeves  of  his  tattered  blue  seaman's  jersey,  and  10  take 
his  place  in  the  goal  which  had  been  formed  by  two  heaps 
of  coats. 

"He's  a  sailor,"  said  Ginger,  for  the  general  information. 
But  the  statement  was  entirely  superfluous.  It  was  clear 
114 


THE  SAILOR 

to  the  humblest  intelligence  that  he  was  a  sailor  and  noth- 
ing else,  but  Ginger  knew  the  value  of  such  an  announce- 
ment. To  a  landsman — and  these  were  landsmen  all — a 
sailor  is  a  sailor.  Strange  glories  are  woven  round  his 
visionary  brow.  He  is  a  being  apart.  Things  are  permitted 
to  him  in  speech  and  deed  that  would  excite  criticism  in  an 
ordinary  mortal.  For  instance,  the  first  shot  at  goal,  which 
Ginger  took  himself  by  divine  right,  and  quite  an  easy  one, 
by  design,  for  a  real  goalkeeper  to  parry,  the  Sailor  missed 
altogether.  Had  he  been  aught  but  a  sailor  his  reputation 
as  far  as  Cox's  Piece  was  concerned  would  have  been  gone 
forever. 

"Ain't  got  his  sea  legs  yet."  Ginger's  coolness  and  im- 
pressiveness  were  extraordinary.  "Been  eight  year  at  sea. 
Round  the  world  nine  times.  Wrecked  twice.  Seed  the 
serpent  off  the  coast  o'  Madagascar.  Give  me  the  ball, 
Igson.  Wait  till  he  gets  his  eye  in  an'  you'll  see." 

Ginger's  second  shot  at  goal  was  easier  than  his  first,  and 
the  Sailor,  to  the  gratification  of  his  mentor,  was  able  to 
mobilize  in  time  to  stop  it. 

"What  did  I  tell  yer?"  said  Ginger.  "You'll  see  what 
he  can  do  when  he  gets  his  sea  legs." 

Within  a  week  the  Sailor  was  the  unofficial  hero  of  Cox's 
Piece.  Ginger,  of  course,  was  the  only  authentic  one.  But 
he  was  too  great  a  man  ever  to  be  visited  by  a  suspicion  of 
jealousy.  Jealousy  is  a  second  rate  passion,  and  whatever 
Ginger  was  he  was  not  second  rate.  Besides  the  Sailor's 
remarkable  success  on  Cox's  Piece  increased  the  prestige  of 
his  discoverer. 

The  Sailor  took  to  goalkeeping  as  a  duck  takes  to  water. 
The  truth  was  he  was  a  goalkeeper  born,  as  a  poet  is  born  or 
a  soldier  or  a  musician.  His  slender  body  was  hung  on 
wires,  his  muscles  were  toughened  into  steel  and  whipcord 
by  long  years  of  hard  and  perilous  training.  Then  his  eye, 


THE  SAILOR 

keen  and  clear  as  a  hawk's,  was  quick  and  true.  Also  he 
was  active  as  a  cat,  and  with  very  little  practice  was  able 
to  compass  that  tour  de  force  of  the  goalkeeper's  art,  the 
trick  of  flinging  himself  full  length  upon  the  ground  in  order 
to  parry  a  swift  shot  at  short  range. 

Ginger  was  a  wonderfully  shrewd  judge  of  men.  And 
this  faculty  had  never  shown  itself  more  clearly  than  in 
seeing  a  born  goalkeeper  in  the  Sailor  even  before  that  young 
man  had  made  his  debut  on  Cox's  Piece.  The  brilliant  form 
of  his  protege  was  a  personal  triumph  for  Ginger.  His 
reputation  for  omniscience  was  more  firmly  established  than 
ever.  In  little  more  than  a  fortnight  the  Sailor  was  able 
to  keep  goal  not  merely  to  the  admiration  of  Cox's  Piece, 
his  fame  had  begun  to  spread. 

It  was  not  that  Henry  Harper,  even  in  these  critical 
days,  was  wholly  absorbed  in  the  business  of  learning  to 
play  football.  Of  vast  importance  to  his  progress  in  the 
world,  as  in  Ginger's  opinion  that  art  was,  there  was  still 
time  and  opportunity  for  the  Sailor  to  think  of  other  things. 

He  was  much  impressed  by  Ginger's  perusal  of  the  eve- 
ning's news,  which  always  took  place  after  supper.  At  the 
same  time  he  was  troubled.  Ginger  took  it  for  granted 
that  Enery  could  read  a  newspaper.  He  treated  that  as  a 
matter  of  course,  perhaps  for  the  reason  that  he  had  seen 
the  Sailor  sign  his  name,  laboriously  it  was  true,  in  the 
time-book  of  Antcliff  and  Jackson,  Limited.  But  Ginger, 
with  all  his  shrewdness,  made  a  bad  mistake.  He  little 
guessed  that  the  Sailor's  signature  stood  for  the  sum  of  his 
learning.  He  little  guessed  when  he  flung  the  Evening  Mer- 
cury across  to  the  Sailor  after  he  had  done  with  it  him- 
self, and  the  Sailor  thanked  him  with  that  odd  politeness 
which  rather  puzzled  him,  and  became  absorbed  in  the 
paper's  perusal,  that  the  young  man  could  hardly  read  a 
word. 

116 


THE  SAILOR 

On  the  evening  this  first  happened  the  Sailor  had  in- 
tended no  deceit.  He  was  so  straight  by  nature  that  he 
could  not  have  set  himself  deliberately  to  take  in  anybody. 
The  deception  came  about  without  any  will  of  his  to  deceive 
at  all;  and  he  was  soon  having  to  maintain  a  false  impres- 
sion which  he  had  not  intended  to  create.  All  the  same,  he 
would  have  been  mortally  ashamed  to  let  the  cat  out  of  his 
bag.  He  well  knew  that  it  would  have  been  a  crushing  blow 
to  that  terrible  thing,  the  pride  of  Ginger. 

The  young  man  wrestling  behind  the  Evening  Mercury 
with  the  simplest  words  it  contained,  and  able  to  make  very 
little  of  them  in  the  way  of  sense  because  they  so  seldom 
came  together,  reflected  ruefully  that  he  ought  at  all  costs  to 
have  borne  in  mind  Klondyke's  advice.  "Stick  to  the  read- 
ing and  writing,  old  friend.  That's  your  line  of  country. 
You'll  get  more  out  of  those  than  ever  you'll  get  out  of  the 
sea."  Bitterly  he  regretted  now  that  he  had  not  set  store 
by  those  inspired  words.  He  began  to  see  clearly  that  you 
could  not  hope  to  cut  much  ice  ashore  unless  you  were  a  man 
of  education. 

He  was  able  to  write  his  name,  and  that  was  all.  Also 
he  knew  his  alphabet  and  could  count  up  to  a  hundred  if 
you  gave  him  plenty  of  time.  There  were  also  a  few  words 
he  knew  at  sight,  and  thirty,  perhaps,  short  ones,  and  the 
easiest  in  the  terribly  difficult  English  language,  that  he 
could  spell  with  an  effort.  This  was  the  sum  of  his  knowl- 
edge, and  the  whole  of  it  was  due  to  Klondyke,  who  had 
given  many  a  half-hour  of  his  leisure  to  imparting  it  in  the 
cold  and  damp  misery  of  the  half-deck  with  no  more  than  a 
sputter  of  candle  by  which  to  do  it. 

Sailor  had  clung  desperately  to  all  the  scraps  of  learning 

which  Klondyke  had  given  him,  but  when  his  friend  left 

the  ship  he  had  not  had  the  grit  to  plow  the  hard  furrow 

of  knowledge  for  himself.     Somehow  he  had  not  been  able 

117 


THE  SAILOR 

to  stick  it.  He  needed  the  inspiration  of  Klondyke's  voice 
and  presence,  of  Klondyke's  humor  and  friendliness.  He 
could  hardly  bring  himself  to  open  the  Bible  his  friend  had 
given  him,  and  when  he  tried  to  read  the  Brooklyn  Eagle 
he  couldn't  see  it  for  tears. 

Now  he  had  left  the  sea  for  good,  he  knew  a  bitter  price 
would  be  exacted  for  his  weakness.  To  begin  with  it  would 
be  impossible  to  tell  Ginger  the  truth.  Ginger  was  the 
kind  of  man  who  would  look  down  on  him  if  once  he  knew 
his  secret.  Besides  it  was  a  grievous  handicap  ashore  never 
to  have  been  to  school.  Moreover  the  Sailor  was  so  honest 
that  any  kind  of  deception  hurt  him. 

"Read  that  yarn  about  Kitchener  and  the  Gippy?" 

"No,"  said  the  miserable  Sailor. 

"Better.     Page  three.     Bottom.     Damn  good.     What?" 

"Yep,"  said  the  Sailor,  wishing  to  commit  the  act  of 
hari-kari.  He  must  find  a  way  out.  The  longer  the  pre- 
tense was  kept  up  the  worse  it  would  be.  But  it  was  impos- 
sible to  tell  Ginger  that  he  couldn't  even  find  the  yarn  of 
Kitchener  and  the  Gippy,  let  alone  attempt  to  read  it. 


VII 


GINGER  was  a  wonderful  chap,  but  his  nature  was 
hard.    He  had  little  of  Klondyke's  far-sighted  sym- 
pathy, which  in  circumstances  of  ever  growing  dif- 
ficulty would  have  been  an  enormous  help  to  the  Sailor. 

Henry  Harper  had  felt  no  shame  when  he  told  the  dismal 
truth  to  Klondyke  that  he  could  neither  read  nor  write. 
But  he  would  rather  have  his  tongue  cut  out  than  tell  that 
particular  truth  to  Ginger.  Still  the  game  of  make-believe 
must  not  go  on.  It  made  the  young  man  horribly  uncom- 
118 


THE  SAILOR 

fortable  to  be  driven  to  play  it  after  supper  every  night. 
Something  must  be  done  if  the  esteem,  perhaps  the  friend- 
ship, of  Ginger  was  not  to  be  forfeited. 

The  Sailor  was  no  fool.  Therefore  he  set  his  wits  very 
seriously  to  work  to  grasp  the  nettle  without  exposing  his 
ignorance  more  than  was  absolutely  necessary.  He  spent 
anxious  hours,  not  only  during  the  day,  but  in  the  watches 
of  the  night,  trying  to  find  a  way  out. 

One  Saturday  evening  he  sat  in  a  frame  of  mind  border- 
ing upon  ecstasy.  At  the  instance  of  Ginger,  who  was  the 
captain  and  treasurer  of  the  club,  the  chairman  of  the  com- 
mittee, and  also  one  of  its  vice-presidents,  the  Sailor  had  been 
invited  that  afternoon  to  keep  goal  for  the  Isle  of  Dogs  Al- 
bion. The  Sailor  had  done  so.  Ginger  had  shaken  hands 
with  him  impressively  after  the  match,  and  had  solemnly 
told  him  that  he  had  won  it  for  his  side,  which  was  truly 
the  case.  And  the  fact  was  frankly  admitted  by  the  rest 
of  the  team. 

"Mark  my  words,"  said  Ginger  to  his  peers,  "that  feller's 
young  at  present,  but  he  plays  for  England  when  he  gets  a 
bit  more  powder  in  his  hold." 

This  was  talking,  but  no  member  of  the  Isle  of  Dogs 
Albion  was  so  misguided  as  to  argue  the  matter.  Ginger's 
word  was  the  law  of  nations.  Besides,  the  Sailor  was  a 
goalkeeping  genius;  his  form  that  afternoon  could  not  have 
been  surpassed  by  Robinson  of  Chelsea. 

That  evening  as  the  Sailor  sat  gazing,  chin  on  hands, 
into  the  fire,  while  Ginger  read  out  the  results  of  the  after- 
noon's matches,  he  began  to  think  to  a  purpose. 

"Sunderland  hasn't  half  put  it  acrost  the  Arsenal.  Villa 
and  Wolves  a  draw." 

"Ginger,"  said  the  Sailor  wistfully,  "if  you  had  been  to 
sea  for  near  seven  year  an'  you  had  forgot  a  bit  o'  what  you 
knowed  at  school,  what  would  you  do  about  it?" 
119 


THE  SAILOR 

"Do  about  what?  'Otspur  hasn't  half  punctured  Liver- 
pool, I  don't  think." 

"Do  about  learnin'  what  you've  forgot?" 

"Come  again,  pardner.  I'm  not  Old  Moore.  Manches- 
ter City  and  Birmingham  no  goals  half  time." 

"Do  about  learnin'  a  bit  o'  figurin'  what  you  ought  to 
ha'  knowed  afore  you  went  to  sea?" 

"Do  you  think  I'm  Datas?"  The  flash  of  scorn  seared 
the  soul  of  Henry  Harper  like  the  live  end  of  an  electric 
wire.  "It's  a  silly  juggins  question.  How  the  hell  should 
I  know?" 

No,  Ginger  was  not  helpful. 

But  tonight  the  Sailor  was  in  the  seventh  heaven,  he  was 
walking  on  air,  therefore  with  a  courage  not  his  as  a  rule 
he  would  not  own  defeat. 

"Suppose  you'd  almost  forgot  how  to  read  the  news. 
What'd  you  do  about  it?" 

"Do  about  it?  Why,  I'd  pleadin'  well  go  and  drown 
meself." 

The  Sailor  drew  in  his  breath  in  a  little  gasp.  But  the 
matter  was  so  tragic  that  he  must  go  on.  And  it  was  no 
more  than  Klondyke  had  foreseen. 

"Perhaps  there's  someone  as  would  learn  me,"  said  the 
Sailor  half  to  himself.  And  then  his  pluck  gave  out. 

Silence  fell  for  twenty  minutes.  Ginger  smoked  Log 
Cabin  and  read  the  evening's  news,  while  the  Sailor  con- 
tinued to  stare  in  the  fire.  Then  Ginger  flung  across  the 
Evening  Mercury  with,  as  the  Sailor  fancied,  a  slight  touch 
of  contempt.  But  Henry  Harper  had  not  the  heart  to  take 
up  the  paper  tonight.  He  must  never  take  it  up  again  until 
he  had  learned  to  read  it! 

In  the  meantime  Ginger  reflected. 

"Sailor,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  fire-lit  figure,  with  vi- 
brations of  depth  and  power  in  his  voice,  "you'll  go  far. 
120 


THE  SAILOR 

That's  my  opinion,  an'  I  don't  talk  out  o'  the  back  o'  my 
neck  as  a  general  rule.  You'll  go  far." 

This  conveyed  nothing  to  the  Sailor. 

"I'm  tellin'  yer,"  said  Ginger.  Rising  with  his  freckled 
face  shining  and  his  deep  mind  fired  by  ambition,  he  took 
from  a  drawer  in  the  supper  table  a  sheet  of  writing-paper, 
an  envelope,  and  a  blotter  which  a  philanthropic  insurance 
company  had  presented  to  the  landlady,  an  ancient  ink 
bottle  and  a  prehistoric  pen  from  the  chimneypiece,  cleared 
a  space  by  piling  saucers  upon  plates  and  cups  on  the  top 
of  them,  and  then  sat  down  to  compose  the  following  letter: 

DEAR  DINK, 

I  write  these  few  lines  hoping  you  are  well  as  they  leave 
me  at  present.  A  chap  has  just  joined  our  club  as  I  think 
you  ought  to  know  about.  He's  a  sailor,  and  his  goal-keeping 
is  marvelous.  None  of  our  chaps  has  seen  anything  like  it. 
Thought  you  might  like  to  know  this  as  the  Hotspurs  is  after 
him.  Two  of  their  directors  came  to  see  him  play  this  after- 
noon, and  from  what  I  hear  they  are  going  to  make  him  an 
offer.  But  from  what  he  tells  me  he  would  rather  play  for 
the  Rovers  than  anybody  as  he  is  Blackhampton  born,  and 
though  he's  been  nine  times  round  the  world  and  wrecked 
twice,  he  thinks  there's  no  town  like  it.  At  present  he  is 
young  and  green,  being  took  to  sea  as  quite  a  kid,  but  I 
honestly  think  your  directors  ought  to  know  about  him,  as 
he  will  be  snapped  up  at  once.  I  can  arrange  to  bring  him 
over  to  Backhampton  any  Saturday  for  your  club  to  look 
at  If  they  care  to  give  us  both  a  trial  with  the  Rovers'  second 
team.  \Ve  would  both  come  for  our  expenses,  railway  fares, 
and  one  day's  wages,  but  he  won't  come  without  me  as  we 
lodge  together  and  play  for  the  same  club.  You  can  take  it 
from  me  he's  a  Nonesuch. 

Yours  truly, 

W.  H.  JUKES. 

P.  S. — This  season  I  am  in  pretty  fair  form  myself  at  right 
full  back.  W.  H.  J. 


THE  SAILOR 

Ginger  wrote  this  letter  with  great  pains  in  a  very  clear 
and  masterful  hand.  He  addressed  it  to  Mr.  D.  Dawson 
(Blackhampton  Rovers  F.C.),  12  Curzon  Street,  Black- 
hampton.  Then,  without  saying  a  word  to  the  Nonesuch, 
he  went  out  to  post  it  at  the  end  of  the  street.  Having  done 
this,  thinking  hard,  he  made  his  way  to  the  little  alien  hair- 
dresser in  the  High  Road,  who  had  the  honor  of  his  patron- 
age, and  sternly  ordered  "a  hair  cut,  and  see  that  you  go 
close  with  the  lawn  mower." 

Meanwhile  the  Sailor  sat  by  the  fire.  Presently  the  room 
was  invaded  by  Mrs.  Sparks,  the  landlady.  She  was  a 
fatigued  and  faded  creature,  but  honest,  discreet,  and  thor- 
oughly respectable  in  Ginger's  opinion,  and  in  that  of  his 
fellow  lodger  there  could  be  no  higher.  Besides  it  was  no 
secret  that  Mrs.  Sparks  had  seen  better  days.  She  was 
the  widow  of  a  mariner,  who  had  borne  a  gallant  part  in 
the  bombardment  of  Alexandria,  although  his  country  and 
hers  appeared  rather  to  have  overlooked  the  fact. 

The  Sailor  was  a  little  afraid  of  Mrs.  Sparks.  She  was 
to  his  mind  a  lady,  and  overawed  by  her  sex  in  general, 
the  young  man  was  rather  embarrassed  by  her  air  of  auster- 
ity. She  never  spoke  without  choosing  her  words,  also  the 
order  in  which  to  place  them ;  and  Ginger,  who  was  frankly 
and  cynically  contemptuous  in  private  discourse  of  Mrs. 
Sparks'  sex,  was  always  careful  to  address  her  as  "Ma'am," 
a  fact  which  as  far  as  the  Sailor  was  concerned  amply 
vouched  for  her  status. 

At  ordinary  times  the  Sailor  would  not  have  dared  to 
speak  to  his  landlady  unless  she  had  first  spoken  to  him.  But 
conight  he  was  in  a  state  of  excitement.  By  some  curious 
means  the  events  of  the  afternoon  had  translated  him.  A 
tiny  bud  of  ambition  was  breaking  its  filaments  in  his 
brain. 

While  Mrs.  Sparks,  weary  and  sallow  of  countenance, 

122 


THE  SAILOR 

was  clearing  the  table,  a  compelling  force  made  the  Sailor 
remove  his  chin  from  his  hands  and  cease  gazing  into  the 
fire. 

"Beggin*  pardon,  m'm,"  he  said,  with  the  odd,  almost 
cringing  humbleness  which  always  inspired  him  in  his  pas- 
sages with  even  the  least  considerable  of  Mrs.  Sparks'  sex, 
"would  you  mind  if  I  ask  you  a  question?" 

The  landlady  was  a  little  surprised.  Her  lodgers  were 
not  in  the  habit  of  taking  her  into  their  confidence.  But  in 
spite  of  a  bleak  exterior  she  was  less  formidable  than  she 
looked,  and  this  the  Sailor  had  felt  to  be  the  case.  In  his 
tone,  moreover,  was  a  note  to  touch  the  heart  of  any  woman. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Sparks  genteelly. 

"If  you  had  been  seven  year  at  sea,"  said  the  young  man, 
enfolding  her  with  his  deep  eyes,  "an'  you  had  forgot  your 
figurin',  what  would  you  do  about  it?" 

Mrs.  Sparks  was  so  completely  at  a  loss  that  the  Sailor 
felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  make  himself  a  little  clearer. 

"Suppose,  m'm,  you  had  forgot  all  yer  knowed  of  your 
writin'  and  readin'  while  you  was  at  sea,  what  'u'd  you  do 
about  that?" 

Mrs.  Sparks  shook  her  head.  It  was  a  ladylike  expression 
of  hopeless  defeat. 

The  Sailor  grew  desperate. 

"See  here,  m'm."  He  took  up  the  Evening  Mercury 
with  a  fierceness  which  immensely  surprised  Mrs.  Sparks; 
he  looked  so  gentle  that  he  didn't  seem  to  have  it  in  him. 
"It's  like  this  year.  I  can't  read  a  word  o'  this  pleadin' 
paper.  „  Beg  parding,  lady."  Her  face  had  hardened  at 
such  a  term  of  the  sea.  The  voice  of  the  young  man 
died  suddenly  as  if  thoroughly  ashamed  of  its  own  vehe- 
mence. 

However  the  vehemence  had  done  the  trick. 

"I  would  learn,"  said  the  landlady  curtly. 
9  123 


THE  SAILOR 

"Yep,"  said  the  Sailor,  with  the  blush  of  a  girl,  "it's  what 
I  want  to." 

"Then  why  not?" 

"Dunno  how,  m'm,"  he  said  helplessly. 

"Why  not  go  to  a  school?" 

"Can't  while  I'm  at  work,  m'm." 

"There  are  schools  you  can  go  to  at  night." 

Mrs.  Sparks  swept  up  the  crumbs,  whisked  away  the  table 
cloth,  replaced  it  with  a  cheerful  looking  red  one,  and  re- 
tired with  a  look  which  the  Sailor  took  for  disdain. 

No,  he  ought  never  to  have  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag.  It 
would  have  been  better  to  have  bitten  off  his  tongue.  But 
after  all  it  was  only  Mrs.  Sparks  .  .  .  although  Mrs.  Sparks 
was  Mrs.  Sparks.  He  must  be  very  careful  how  he  let  on 
to  people  about  his  shameful  ignorance. 

He  was  a  fool  to  worry  about  it.  "It's  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of,  old  friend,"  Klondyke  had  said,  but  the  world 
was  not  made  up  of  Klondykes.  It  was  something  to  be 
ashamed  of  if  you  looked  at  it  as  Mrs.  Sparks  and  Ginger 
did.  He  felt,  as  far  as  they  were  concerned,  he  would  never 
live  it  down.  Once  more  he  looked  into  the  fire  in  order  to 
resume  the  captaincy  of  his  soul.  But  it  was  no  use.  Fix 
his  will  as  he  might,  the  famous  blue  and  chocolate  jerseys 
of  the  Blackhampton  Rovers  had  yielded  permanently  to 
Mrs.  Sparks  with  a  look  of  scorn  in  her  face. 

He  got  up  and  in  sudden  despair  took  his  cap  off  the  peg 
behind  the  door.  No  longer  could  he  stay  in  the  room  with 
his  shame.  More  space,  more  air  was  needed.  As  he  flung 
open  the  outer  door,  a  gust  of  damp  fog  came  in;  and  with 
it  came  the  squat,  powerful,  slightly  bow-legged  figure  of 
Ginger,  looking  more  than  ever  like  a  man  of  destiny  now 
he  had  had  his  hair  cut. 

"Where  goin'?" 

"Walk,"  said  the  Sailor  miserably. 
124 


THE  SAILOR 

"Nice  night  for  a  walk.  Rum  one  you  are."  Had  the 
Sailor's  promise  as  a  goalkeeper  been  less  remarkable  Ginger 
would  have  been  tempted  to  rebuke  such  irresponsible  be- 
havior. As  it  was  he  was  content  merely  to  place  it  on 
record. 

"Well  if  you  must,  you  must,"  said  Ginger  magisterially, 
closing  the  door. 

VIII 

AT  five  minutes  past  six  on  Tuesday  evening,  when 
Ginger  came  home  from  work,  a  letter  was  wait- 
ing for  him  on  the  sitting-room  chimneypiece.  The 
first  thing  he  noticed  was  that  it  bore  the  Blackhampton 
postmark,  but  being  a  very  cool  and  sure  hand,  he  did  not 
open  it  at  once.  He  preferred  to  fulfil  the  first  and  obvious 
duty  of  a  self-respecting  citizen  of  "cleaning  himself  up"  at 
the  scullery  sink  with  water  from  the  pump,  and  of  sitting 
down  to  a  dish  of  tripe  and  fried  onions,  always  a  favorite 
with  him,  and  particularly  on  Tuesday  when  the  tripe  was 
fresh,  while  the  Sailor,  looking  rather  forlorn,  poured  out 
the  tea.  Ginger  chose  to  do  all  this  with  astounding  sang- 
froid before  opening  Dinkie  Dawson's  letter. 

He  read  slowly,  with  unruffled  countenance.  Then  with 
a  noncommittal  air,  he  threw  the  letter  carelessly  across  the 
table  to  the  Sailor,  who  had  to  retrieve  it  from  the  slop  basin 
which  fortunately  was  empty. 

"Read  it,"  said  Ginger,  his  face  a  mask,  his  tone  ice  cold, 
without  a  trace  of  emotion. 

The  Sailor  blushed  vividly. 

"Read  it,  yer  fool,"  said  Ginger.  The  pitiless  autocrat 
was  now  striking  through  the  tone  of  detachment. 

Hopelessly  confused,  the  Sailor  turned  the  letter  the  right 
side  up.  But  he  didn't  attempt  to  read.  He  knew  it  was 
125 


THE  SAILOR 

no  use.    There  was  not  a  line  he  could  understand,  yet  he 
was  forced  to  hold  it  before  his  eyes. 

"What  do  you  think  o'  that,  young  feller,  my  lad?" 

S^rn  triumph  was  striking  now  through  Ginger's  almost 
terrible  detachment.  "What  do  you  think  on  it,  eh  ?" 

The  Sailor  was  not  able  to  think  anything  of  it  at  thr 
moment. 

"None  so  dusty — what?"  Ginger  fairly  glowed  with  a 
sense  of  victory. 

"Yep,"  said  the  Sailor  feebly. 

"About  fixes   it — what?" 

"Yep,"  said  the  Sailor. 

He  gave  back  the  letter  to  Ginger  with  nervous  guilt, 
neither  knowing  why  it  was  none  so  dusty  nor  what  it  was 
that  it  fixed. 

"Yer  silly  perisher.    Don't  yer  see  what  it  means  ?" 

The  Sailor  nodded  feebly. 

"Very  well,  then,  why  don't  yer  say  so?" 

There  was  the  light  <c>f  contempt  in  the  truculent  eyes  of 
Ginger.  The  Sailor  simply  could  not  meet  them. 

"Blymy" — the  scorn  of  Ginger  was  withering — "if  you 
hadn't  been  nine  times  round  the  world  afore  the  mast,  I 
should  say  you  was  just  a  guy — I  should  straight.  Don't 
you  understand  what  Dinkie  Dawson  says?" 

The  Sailor's  stammer  might  be  taken  for,  "Yep." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Ginger,  so  savagely  that  he  had 
to  read  the  Evening  Mercury  in  order  to  calm  himself. 

The  Sailor  began  to  wish  he  was  dead.  And  then  sud- 
denly Ginger  laid  down  the  paper. 

"This  touch  is  goin'  to  cost  you  money,  young  Mister 
Man,"  he  said,  magniloquently. 

The  Sailor's  face  was  haggard. 

"You'll  have  to  lay  out  thirty  bob  on  a  new  suit  of  clothes 
to  start  with." 

126 


THE  SAILOR 

The  Sailor  nodded. 

"Of  course,  you  can  get  a  suit  for  less,  but  myself  I'm 
all  for  quality." 

The  Sailor  nodded. 

"If  you'll  take  my  advice,  young  feller,  you'll  go  to  Dago 
and  Rogers  and  get  one  o'  them  blue  suitings  as  they  shows 
in  the  winder,  neat  but  not  gaudy,  cut  in  the  West  End 
style.  I'm  thinkin'  o'  gettin'  one  meself ;  you  simply  can't 
help  lookin'  a  gentleman  in  one  o'  them,  with  a  spotted  tie 
and  a  double  turnover  collar." 

"Yep,"  said  the  Sailor,  to  whom  all  this  was  as  intelligible 
as  a  play  of  Sophocles. 

"You'll  also  want  a  nice  neat  Gladstone." 

"Yep,"  said  the  Sailor  abjectly. 

"Brown  paper  parcel  and  your  boots  tied  on  by  string  at 
the  end  o'  it  won't  do  in  this  scene,  young  feller." 

"No,"  said  the  Sailor. 

"Got  to  dress  the  shop  winder  a  bit  in  this  act."  A 
strange  inner  light  was  beginning  to  gleam  in  the  eyes  of 
Ginger.  "Nice  new  Gladstone,  pair  o'  nice  wide  knickers 
cut  saucy  round  the  knee,  and  a  set  o'  new  laces  in  your 
boots.  And  I'm  thinking  one  o'  those  all-wool  white  sweat- 
ers you  can  get  at  Tatlow's  might  turn  out  a  good  invest- 
ment." 

The  Sailor  nodded  feebly. 

"Never  spile  the  ship  for  a  ha'porth  o'  tar.  Allus  dress 
the  part.  Never  stint  a  coat  o'  paint  for  Mrs.  Jarley's  Wax- 
works." 

The  Sailor  nodded. 

"You've  got  to  learn  to  knock  the  public  silly,"  concluded 
Ginger,  with  a  ferocity  almost  frightening,  "if  you  are 
ever  goin'  to  cut  any  ice  on  this  bleedin'  planet." 

Utterly  nonplussed,  the  Sailor  went  early  to  bed  with  his 
shame. 

127 


THE  SAILOR 


IX 


IN  the  opinion  of  Cox's  Piece,  "lift"  was  not  the  word 
for  the  bearing  of  Ginger  on  the  morrow  at  the  mid- 
day gathering.     It  was  pardonable,  no  doubt;  Ginger 
was  Ginger,  a  being  apart.     Twopenny  Sturgess  wouldn't 
half  have  had  it  dusted  out  of  him.     It  wouldn't  have  been 
stood  from  Gogo,  or  Hogan,  or  Foxey  Green,  but  with  Gin- 
ger it  was  different.     It  was  realized  in  a  way  that  was 
almost  sinister  by  the  cognoscenti  of  Cox's  Piece  that  if  there 
was  such  a  thing  existing  in  the  world,  Ginger  was  really 
and  truly  It. 

Nevertheless,  Pouncer  Rogers  was  so  unwise  as  to  put  into 
words  the  unspoken  thought  that  was  in  every  mind  when 
he  told  Ginger  bluntly  to  his  face  "that  he'd  believe  it  when 
he  seed  it." 

"Yer  call  me  a  liar,"  said  Ginger,  drawing  himself  up  to 
his  full  height  of  five  feet  six  inches  with  remarkable  dig- 
nity. 

"I  said  I'd  believe  it  when  I  seed  it,"  said  the  heroic 
Pouncer. 

"Sailor  here  read  the  letter,"  said  Ginger,  underplaying 
from  the  sheer  strength  of  his  hand.  "Didn't  you,  Sailor 
boy?  You  read  Dinkie  Dawson's  letter?" 

"Yep,"  said   the  miserable  Sailor. 

"An'  didn't  he  say  a  day's  wages  and  railway  fares  both 
ways?" 

The  answer  of  the  Sailor  was  understood  to  be  in  the  af- 
firmative. 

"First  class,  o*  course,"  said  Pouncer,  with  a  deliberate 
wink  at  Gogo  and  Twopenny. 

Ginger's  hand  was  so  full  that  he  could  afford  to  treat 
the  observation  on  its  merits. 
128 


THE  SAILOR 

"Third  class,  Pouncer.  It  was  third,  Sailor  boy?"  The 
appeal  to  Sailor  boy  had  a  superb  touch  of  condescension. 
Pouncer  would  cheerfully  have  given  a  week's  wages  for  the 
privilege  of  slaying  Ginger. 

"Yep — third,"  muttered  the  miserable  one. 

"Ginger  Jukes,"  said  the  defiant  Pouncer,  "if  you  want 
my  'pinion,  you  don't  know  Dinkie  Dawson  at  all.  That's 
my  'pinion." 

"Your  opinion  was  not  ast,  young  Pouncer."  Ginger's 
air  was  that  of  a  Napoleon.  "An'  when  anyone  pleadin' 
well  asts  it,  Pouncer,  you  can  give  it.  Perhaps  you'll  say 
that  Sailor  didn't  read  Dinkie's  letter?" 

"So  he  says,"  sneered  Pouncer. 

The  Sailor  winced,  but  the  cognoscenti  were  much  too 
busy  to  notice  him. 

"You  are  never  goin'  to  call  him  a  liar,"  said  Ginger. 

"I  call  him  nothing." 

"You  had  better  not,"  said  Ginger,  who  noticed  that 
Pouncer  was  drawing  in  his  horns  a  bit.  "/  can  afford  to 
take  your  lip,  young  Pouncer  Rogers.  I'm  used  to  it  an* 
you  are  no  class,  anyway,  but  if  you  call  the  Sailor  here  a 
liar,  he'll  have  to  put  it  acrost  you.  Won't  you,  Sailor 
boy?" 

No  reply  from  the  Sailor. 

"I  call  him  nothing,"  said  Pouncer,  coming  back  a  bit  at 
this  rather  unexpected  silence  on  the  part  of  the  Sailor. 
"But  I  simply  says  he  pleadin'  well  didn't  read  no  pleadin' 
letter  from  Dinkie  Dawson,  that's  all  I  simply  says." 

"Young  Pouncer,"  said  Ginger,  "you  have  called  the 
Sailor  a  liar."  He  turned  to  his  protege  with  the  anxious 
air  of  an  extraordinarily  polite  Samaritan.  "I'll  hold  your 
coat,  Sailor  boy.  You've  took  too  much  already  from  the 
likes  o'  him.  Give  me  your  coat.  You  are  bound  to  put  if 
acrost  him  now." 

129 


THE  SAILOR 

Ginger  looked  around  magisterially ;  the  cognoscenti  con- 
curred as  one.  Already  the  Sailor's  coat  was  in  Ginger's 
hand.  In  the  next  moment  he  had  rolled  up  the  sleeves  of 
the  Sailor's  blue  jersey,  remarking  as  he  did  so,  "If  ever 
I  see  a  chap  on  his  bended  knees  a-lookin'  for  trouble,  it's 
this  here  young  Pouncer.  Sailor  boy,  if  you'll  be  ruled  by 
me,  you  won't  half  give  him  his  gruel." 

"It's  more  than  you  can,  Ginger  Jukes,"  said  Pouncer, 
with  ill-timed  and  unworthy  defiance. 

Ginger  was  aware  of  that  fact.  In  the  first  place,  fighting 
was  not  his  long  suit.  He  had  too  much  intellect  to  love  so 
vulgar  a  pastime  merely  for  its  own  sake.  Not  only  was  it 
violent  and  dangerous,  but  it  seldom  meant  anything  in 
particular  when  you  were  through  with  it.  All  the  same,  it 
had  its  uses.  Pouncer  had  been  getting  above  himself  for 
some  little  time  now.  If  he  didn't  soon  receive  a  proper 
licking  from  somebody,  the  hegemony  of  Cox's  Piece  might 
cease  to  be  a  sinecure. 

"His  left's  fairly  useful,"  whispered  Ginger,  as  he  brought 
his  man  up  to  the  scratch.  "But  that's  ail  he's  got.  Now 
mind  you  punch  a  hole  right  through  him." 

It  was  a  rather  disappointing  scrap.  But  for  this  if 
would  be  unfair  to  blame  either  Pouncer  or  the  Sailor.  The 
fiasco  was  due  to  the  unexpected,  unwarranted,  thoroughly 
ill-timed,  and  almost  unprecedented  behavior  of  the  Metro- 
politan Police,  who  in  the  person  of  a  certain  Constable  ¥28 
promptly  moved  on  the  combatants  while  they  were  spar- 
ring for  position.  He  was  obviously  a  young  constable  who 
had  not  quite  shaken  down  into  his  duties. 

"It'll  have  to  be  a  draw,"  announced  Ginger  a  little 
lower  down  the  road,  while  Constable  ¥28  stood  watching 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  cognoscenti.  But  it  may  have  been 
that  Ginger's  verdict  was  governed  less  by  a  consideration 
of  the  attitude  of  Constable  Y28,  than  by  the  fact  that 
130 


THE  SAILOR 

Pouncer's  ring-craft  appeared  to  have  improved  considerably 
since  Ginger  had  last  seen  it  in  action.  For  obvious  reasons, 
it  would  not  do  for  the  Sailor  to  meet  his  Waterloo  just 
then. 

"Young  Pouncer,"  said  Ginger,  as  a  final  and  dramatic 
parting  shot,  "you've  called  the  Sailor  a  liar,  but  all  the 
same,  we  can  neither  on  us  play  next  Saturday  for  the  Isle 
of  Dogs  Albion.  An'  if  on  Saturday  mornin'  you  take  the 
trouble  to  roll  up  at  the  station  about  five  minutes  to  seven, 
you  will  flaming  well  see  the  reason." 

"Seein'  ain't  always  believin,"  said  Pouncer. 

In  spite,  however,  of  that  unchallengeable  statement, 
Cox's  Piece  was  well  represented  at  the  up  platform  to 
London  Bridge  at  five  minutes  to  seven,  or  thereabouts, 
on  the  morning  of  Saturday,  November  3.  These  en- 
thusiasts, touched  with  scepticism  as  they  were,  deserved 
well  of  fate.  It  was  not  that  they  sympathized  with 
Pouncer  Rogers  in  his  ignoble  point  of  view;  they  believed 
that  for  the  first  time  in  its  brief  and  rather  checkered 
history,  the  Isle  of  Dogs  Albion  F.C.  was  coming  into 
its  own. 

An  impressive  sight  met  the  faithful  who  were  present  on 
the  up  platform  to  London  Bridge  at  a  few  minutes  to 
seven  on  the  morning  of  Saturday.  Then  it  was  that  Gin- 
ger and  the  Sailor  were  seen  in  the  booking-hall  taking 
their  tickets  for  Blackhampton.  Each  carried  a  brand-new 
and  decidedly  elegant  Gladstone  bag,  brilliant  of  hue  and 
affirming  its  ownership  in  bold  and  clear  letters;  W.  H.  J. 
— H.  H.  Moreover,  both  Ginger  and  the  Sailor  wore  a 
brand-new  cap  of  black  and  white  tweed,  a  brand-new  over- 
coat with  velvet  collar,  a  brand-new  blue  suit,  undoubted 
masterpieces  of  Jago  and  Brown,  25  The  Arcade,  and  at 
Finsbury  Circus,  the  whole  surmounted  by  lustrous  boots, 
spotted  necktie  and  spotless  double  collar.  The  effect  was 


THE  SAILOR 

heightened  by  a  previous  evening's  haircut  and  a  close  ma- 
tutinal shave. 

Those  of  the  faithful  who  had  assembled  on  the  up  plat- 
form to  wish  bon  voyage  to  their  club  mates  on  their  journey 
to  High  Olympus  were  rather  staggered  by  the  sight  o'f 
them.  Had  the  goalkeeper  and  the  right  full  back  of  the 
Isle  of  Dogs  Albion  been  going  forth  to  play  for  the  first 
team  of  the  Villa  itself,  they  could  not  have  dressed  the 
part  more  superbly.  Such  stage  management,  its  inception 
due  to  the  genius  of  Ginger,  its  execution,  the  fruit  of  the 
Sailor's  fabulous  wealth,  filled  their  friends  with  awe.  The 
unworthy  doubt  cast  by  Pouncer  upon  Ginger's  bona  fides 
brought  its  own  Nemesis.  Pouncer  was  so  completely 
overthrown  by  the  spectacular  appearance  on  the  up  plat- 
form that  he  sneaked  out  of  the  station  via  alternate  doors 
of  the  refreshment  buffet,  an  illegal  crossing  of  the  main 
line,  and  a  final  exit  by  the  booking-hall  of  the  down 
platform. 

Seated  in  a  third  smoker,  on  the  way  to  his  natal  city  of 
Blackhampton,  upon  which  he  had  not  set  eyes  for  seven 
long  and  incredible  years,  the  emotions  of  Henry  Harper 
were  very  complex.  He  was  in  a  dream.  He  had  been 
made  to  realize  by  the  Force  seated  opposite  smoking  Log 
Cabin  and  reading  Pearson '$  Weekly,  that  romance  had 
i  come  at  last  into  a  mean  and  hopeless  life — into  a  life  which 
had  never  looked  for  such  things  to  happen. 

The  Sailor  knew  now  the  ordeal  before  him.  He  was  to 
be  tried  as  a  goalkeeper  by  the  great  and  famous  Black- 
hampton Rovers,  the  gods  of  his  youth.  The  fact  was  very 
hard  to  believe,  but  according  to  the  relentless  Force  to  the 
wheel  of  whose  chariot  he  was  tied  such  was  the  case.  And 
there  was  his  new  gear  to  prove  it. 

When  they  got  past  Luton,  they  had  the  compartment  to 
themselves.  It  was  then  that  the  Force,  alias  Ginger,  laid 
132 


THE  SAILOR 

Pearson's  Weekly  aside  and  admonished  the  Sailor  out  of 
the  store  of  his  wisdom. 

"First  thing  you  bear  in  mind,  young  feller,  is  your 
name's  Cucumber.  That's  the  hallmark  o'  class.  It's  the 
coolest  player  what  takes  the  kitty.  Did  you  ever  see  Jock 
Norton  o'  the  Villa?" 

The  Sailor  did  not  remember  having  done  so. 

"It  don't  matter,"  said  Ginger.  "This  afternoon  you'll 
see  me.  I've  formed  myself  on  Jock  Norton  o'  the  Villa. 
There's  no  better  model  for  a  young  and  risin'  player.  But 
as  I  say,  Cucumber's  your  docket.  That's  my  first  an'  my 
last  word  to  you,  young  feller.  It's  Cucumber  what'll  put 
the  half  Nelson  on  the  kermittee.  And,  o'  course,  every- 
think  else  yer  leave  to  me.  Understand?" 

The  Sailor  did  his  best  to  do  so. 

"Everythink  I  tells  yer,  you'll  do.  Everythink  I  says, 
you'll  stand  by.  What  I  says  you've  said,  you've  pleadin' 
well  said,  young  feller,  an'  don't  forget  it." 

The  Sailor  \vas  not  likely  to  forget.  The  look  in  the  eyes 
of  Ginger,  slightly  flecked  with  green  in  a  good  light — why 
they  should  have  assumed  that  color  is  part  of  the  eternal 
paradox — sent  little  chills  down  the  Sailor's  spine. 

They  steamed  into  the  Central  Station  of  the  famous 
but  murky  city  of  Blackhampton  at  half-past  twelve.  The 
Sailor  was  still  in  a  dream,  but  of  so  vivid  a  hue  that  he 
was  fairly  trembling  with  excitement.  And  the  first  per- 
son he  saw,  who  actually  opened  the  door  of  their  compart- 
ment, was  a  certain  grim  railway  policeman,  who,  on  Henry 
Harper's  last  appearance  at  Blackhampton  Central  Station, 
had  led  him  outside  by  the  ear  and  cuffed  him  soundly  for 
having  ventured  to  appear  in  it.  The  final  words  of  this 
stern  official  had  been,  "If  ever  you  come  in  here  again,  you'll 
see  what  I'll  do." 

Well,  Henry  Harper  had  come  in  again,  and  he  was  now 
133 


THE  SAILOR 

seeing  what  the  policeman  did.  He  felt  subconsciously  that 
fate  was  laughing  at  this  obsequious  figure  in  uniform  open- 
ing the  door  of  a  third  smoker  for  a  new  goalkeeper,  who 
had  come  specially  from  London  to  be  tried  by  the  Rovers. 

Ginger  considered  it  an  economy  of  time,  also  the  part 
of  policy,  to  have  a  light  repast  at  the  refreshment  buffet. 
While  they  were  in  the  act  of  consuming  egg  sandwiches, 
bananas,  and  a  pint  of  bitter — they  were  good  to  play  on — 
the  throng  around  the  buffet  was  swollen  by  three  or  four 
smart  individuals  not  quite  so  well  dressed  as  themselves 
perhaps,  but  each  carrying  a  handbag  which  if  not  so  new 
as  theirs  was  very  similar  in  shape,  design,  and  general  im- 
portance. 

There  was  a  little  commotion  near  the  beer  engine.  "Play 
up,  Rovers,"  cried  an  enthusiast  in  a  chocolate  and  blue  neck- 
tie. The  quick  ear  of  Ginger  caught  the  sound;  his  eye 
envisaged  the  cause  of  it.  He  gave  the  Sailor  a  nudge  so 
shrewd  and  sudden  as  to  involve  disaster  to  his  pint  of 
bitter. 

"There's  Dink,"  he  said,  in  a  thrilling  whisper. 

One  less  than  Ginger  would  have  waited  for  the  situa- 
tion to  evolve.  He  would  have  been  modestly  content  for 
the  famous  and  redoubtable  Dinkie  Dawson,  already  an  idol 
of  the  public  and  the  press,  to  confer  notice  upon  those 
whose  reputations  were  in  the  womb  of  time.  But  that  was 
not  Ginger's  way. 

"Come  on,  Sailor  boy,  I'll  introjuice  yer.  But  mind — 
Cucumber.  And  leave  the  lip  ter  me." 

The  Sailor  didn't  feel  like  being  introduced  to  anybody 
just  then,  certainly  not  to  Dinkie  Dawson,  or  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  or  Lord  Salisbury,  or  anyone  of  equal  eminence. 
In  spite  of  new  clothes  and  a  Gladstone  bag,  he  knew  his 
limit.  But  the  relentless  Force  to  the  wheel  of  whose 
chariot  he  was  tied,  the  amazing  Ginger,  sauntered  up  to 
134 


THE  SAILOR 

the  beer  engine  and  struck  Dinkie  Dawson  a  blow  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Hullo,  Ginge,"  said  the  great  man.  Moreover  he  spoke 
with  the  large  geniality  of  one  who  has  really  arrived. 

"Hullo,  Dink."  Cucumber  was  not  the  word  for  Gin- 
ger. "Where  are  ye  playin'?" 

"At  Durbee  agen  the  Countee." 

"Mind  yer  put  it  acrost  'em,"  said  Ginger,  in  the  ready 
and  agreeable  tone  of  the  man  of  the  world.  "Let  me  intro- 
juice  Mr.  Enery  Arper.  Mr.  Dinkie  Dawson." 

"  'Ow  do,"  said  Dinkie.  But  it  was  not  the  tone  he  had 
used  to  Ginger.  There  was  inquiry,  condescension,  keep- 
your-distance  and  quite  a  lot  of  other  things  in  it.  Ginger, 
whom  Dinkie  knew  and  liked,  had  described  Mr.  Enery 
Arper  as  a  Nonesuch,  but  Dinkie,  who  was  himself  a  None- 
such of  a  very  authentic  breed,  was  not  all  inclined  to  make 
concessions  to  a  Nonesuch  in  embryo. 

Mr.  Harper's  shyness  was  so  intense  that  it  might  easily 
have  been  mistaken  for  Lift.  But  Ginger,  wary  and  alert, 
stepped  into  the  breach  with  his  accustomed  gallantry. 

"I  told  yer  in  my  letter  he  had  been  a  sailor,"  whispered 
Ginger  in  the  great  man's  ear.  "He's  sailed  eight  years 
afore  the  mast.  Three  times  wrecked.  Seed  the  serpent. 
Gee,  what  that  chap's  done  an'  seen — it  fair  makes  you 
dizzy.  Not  that  you  would  think  it  to  look  at  him,  would 
yer?" 

"No,  I  wouldn't,"  said  Dinkie,  who  measured  men  by 
one  standard  only.  "But  what  about  his  goalkeeping?  Can 
he  keep  goal  or  can't  he?  There's  a  big  chance  for  a  chap 
as  can  really  keep  goal.  But  he  must  be  class." 

"He's  class,"  said  Ginger — coolly. 

"Can  he  clear  well?" 

"He's  a  daisy,  I  tell  yer." 

"That's  got  to  be  seen,"  said  Dinkie.  "But  he  looks  green 
135 


THE  SAILOR 

to  me.  An'  I  tell  you  this,  Ginger  Jukes,  it's  not  a  bit  o' 
use  anybody  trying  to  lumber  a  green  un  on  to  a  club  like 
the  Rovers." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Ginger  urbanely.  "But  you'll  see — 
if  he  keeps  his  thatch.  By  the  way,  Dink,  you  didn't  say  in 
your  letter  whether  the  Rovers  had  a  vacancy  for  a  right 
full  back." 

"We've  got  Mullins  and  Pretyman,  the  best  pair  o'  backs 
in  England." 

Ginger  knew  that  perfectly  well,  but  he  did  not  allow  it 
to  defeat  him. 

"There's  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  come  out  of  it," 
said  he. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Dinkie  Dawson  coldly. 

It  was  clear  that  Ginger  Jukes  did  not  realize  where  he 
was  or  what  he  was  up  against. 


GINGER  and  the  Sailor  drove  to  the  ground  of  the 
Blackhampton  Rovers  on  the  roof  of  a  two-horse 
bus.     It  was  a  long  way  from  the  Central  Station, 
but  they  had  time  in  hand;  the  match  did  not  begin  until 
half-past  two,  and  it  was  only  a  little  after  one  at  present. 
As  together  they  made  what  both  felt  to  be  as  fateful  a 
journey  as  they  would  ever  take  in  the  whole  course  of 
their  lives,  their  emotions  were  many  and  conflicting. 

"There  y'are,  young  feller."  Ginger  pointed  to  a  hoard- 
ing on  which  a  chocolate  and  blue  poster  was  displayed.  In 
spite  of  his  religion  of  Cucumber,  the  thrill  in  his  voice 
was  perceptible.  "There's  a  bill  of  the  match." 

"Who   are  we   p-playin'?"   stammered   the   Sailor,   half 
136 


THE  SAILOR 

choked  by  a  sudden  rush  of  emotion  that  threatened   to 
unman  him. 

"Can't  yer  read?" 

"No,"  gasped  the  Sailor. 

"No?"  gasped  Ginger. 

"I — I  mean,  I  can't  see  very  well." 

"Can't  see!" 

Ginger  nearly  fell  off  the  bus. 

"Not  at  this  distance,  I — I  mean." 

"Blymy."  For  a  moment  Ginger  was  done.  Then  he 
said  with  a  ferocity  ruthless  and  terrible,  "Young  feller, 
you've  pleadin'  well  got  to  see  this  afternoon.  You've  got 
to  keep  yer  eyes  skinned  or  ...  or  I'll  scrag  yer.  Under- 
stand ?  If  you  let  me  down  or  you  let  Dinkie  make  a  mark 
on  us,  you'll  see  what  I'll  do."  There  was  something  deadly 
now  in  the  freckled  skin  and  the  green  eyes.  Ginger  might 
have  been  a  large  reptile  from  the  Island  of  San  Pedro. 

The  Sailor  felt  horribly  nervous,  and  the  demeanor  of 
Ginger  did  not  console  him.  The  fact  was,  Ginger  was 
horribly  nervous  too.  It  was  the  moment  of  his  life,  the 
hour  to  which  vaulting  ambition  had  long  looked  forward. 
Before  this  damp,  dismal  November  afternoon  was  three 
hours  older  would  be  decided  the  one  really  pregnant  prob- 
lem of  Ginger's  universe,  namely  and  to  wit,  could  he  con- 
trive to  get  his  foot  on  the  ladder  that  leads  to  fame  and 
fortune?  If  courage  and  resolution  and  an  insight  into 
the  ways  of  men  could  bring  this  thing  to  pass  there  was 
reason  for  Ginger  to  be  of  good  faith.  But — and  the  But 
was  a  big  one — none  knew  better  than  Ginger  that  many 
are  called  and  few  are  chosen,  that  the  world  is  full  of 
gifted  and  ambitious  people  who  have  never  quite  man- 
aged to  "deliver  the  goods,"  that  life  is  hell  for  the  under 
dog,  and  that  it  is  given  to  no  man  to  measure  the  axact 
distance  between  the  cup  and  the  lip. 
137 


THE  SAILOR 

The  ground  of  the  Blackhampton  Rovers  Football  Club 
came  into  view  as  the  bus  dived  into  a  muddy  and  narrow 
lane.  It  then  crossed  the  bridge  of  the  West  Norton  and 
Bagsworth  canal,  and  there  before  the  thrilled  eyes  of  the 
Sailor  was  the  faded  flag  of  chocolate  and  blue  flying  over 
the  enormous  corrugated  iron  roof  of  the  grand  stand.  But 
there  were  not  many  people  about  at  present.  It  was  not 
yet  two  o'clock,  moreover  the  spectators  were  likely  to  be 
few,  so  dismal  was  the  afternoon,  and  of  such  little  im- 
portance the  match,  which  was  a  mere  affair  of  the  second 
team. 

Ginger,  with  all  his  formidable  courage,  was  devoutly 
thankful  that  such  was  the  case.  It  was  well  that  the  pres- 
tige of  the  Blackhampton  Rovers  was  not  at  stake.  For 
he  knew  that  he  was  taking  a  terrible  risk.  The  Sailor  was 
young  and  untried,  his  experience  of  the  game  was  slight, 
and  had  been  gained  in  poor  company.  Even  the  second 
team  of  the  august  Blackhampton  Rovers  was  quite  a  dif- 
ferent matter  from  the  first  team  of  the  Isle  of  Dogs  Al- 
bion. They  were  up  against  class  and  had  better  look  out! 

This  was  the  thought  in  Ginger's  mind  as  he  entered  the 
ground  of  the  famous  club,  with  the  Sailor  at  his  heels,  and 
haughtily  said,  "Player,"  in  response  to  a  demand  for 
entrance  money  on  the  part  of  the  man  at  the  gate.  Ginger 
was  a  little  overawed  by  his  surroundings  already  in  spite 
of  a  fixed  determination  not  to  be  overawed  by  anything. 

As  for  the  Sailor,  following  upon  the  heels  of  Ginger  and 
speaking  not  a  word,  he  was  as  one  in  a  dream.  Yes,  this 
was  the  ground  of  the  Rovers  right  enough.  There  was  the 
flag  over  the  pavilion.  God  in  heaven,  what  things  he  had 
seen,  what  things  he  had  known  since  he  looked  on  it  last! 
Somehow  the  sight  of  that  torn  and  faded  banner  of  choco- 
late and  blue  brought  a  sudden  gush  of  tears  to  his  eyes. 
And  in  a  queer  way,  he  felt  a  better  man  for  shedding  them. 
138 


THE  SAILOR 

There  at  the  end  of  the  ground  by  the  farther  goal,  in 
the  shadow  of  the  legend,  Blackhampton  Empire  Twice 
Nightly,  painted  in  immense  letters  on  a  giant  hoarding, 
was  the  tree  out  of  which  young  Arris  fell  and  was  pinched 
by  a  rozzer  on  the  never-to-be-forgotten  day  when  the  Villa 
came  to  play  the  Rovers  in  that  immortal  cup  tie  it  had 
been  the  glory  of  his  youth  to  witness.  And  now  .  .  .  and 
now!  It  was  too  much!  Henry  Harper  could  not  believe 
that  he  was  about  to  wear  the  chocolate  and  blue  himself, 
that  he  was  about  to  tread  the  turf  of  this  historic  field 
which  had  not  so  much  as  one  blade  of  grass  upon  it. 

"Young  feller."  The  face  of  Ginger  was  pale,  his  voice 
was  hoarse.  "Don't  forget  what  I've  told  yer.  Remember 
Cucumber.  Stick  tight  to  your  thatch.  There's  a  lot  at 
stake  for  both  on  us.  This  has  got  to  mean  two  quid  a  week 
for  you  and  me." 

The  Sailor  did  not  reply.  But  an  odd  look  came  into  his 
deep  eyes.  Could  Ginger  have  read  them,  and  it  was  well 
he  could  not,  those  eyes  would  have  accused  him  of  sacri- 
lege. It  was  not  with  thoughts  like  these  that  Henry 
Harper  defiled  the  classic  battleground,  the  sacred  earth 
of  High  Olympus. 

XI 

IN  the  Rovers'  dressing-room  the  reception  of  Ginger 
and  the  Sailor  was  cool.     Their  look  of  newness,  of 
their  bags  and  overcoats  in  particular,  at  once  aroused 
feelings  of  hostility.     They  implied  greenness  and  swank; 
and  in  athletic  circles  these  carry  heavy  penalties.     Green- 
ness is  a  grave  misdemeanor,   swank  a  deadly  sin.     For- 
tunately Ginger  was  far  too  wise  to  talk.     He  contented 
himself  with  a  civil  passing  of  the  time  of  day.     One  less  a 
warrior  might  have  been  a  little  cowed  by  the  glances  at 
10  139 


THE  SAILOR 

his  bag  and  his  overcoat.  But  Ginger  was  not.  He  did 
not  care  two  straws  for  the  opinion  of  his  fellow  hirelings. 
It  was  his  business  to  impress  the  club  committee. 

As  for  the  Sailor,  he  was  not  in  a  condition  to  under- 
stand what  was  taking  place  around  him.  Cucumber  might 
be  his  name,  but  his  brain  was  like  a  ball  of  fire. 

One  of  the  immortal  chocolate  and  blue  shirts  was  handed 
to  him,  but  when  the  time  came  to  put  it  on  he  stood  hold- 
ing it  in  his  hand. 

"Into  it,  3'er  fool,"  said  his  mentor,  in  a  fierce  whisper. 
It  would  not  be  wise  to  attract  by  a  display  of  eccentricity 
the  notice  of  nine  pairs  of  eyes. 

With  a  start,  the  Sailor  came  back  to  the  present  and 
thrust  his  head  into  the  shirt.  His  thoughts  were  witH 
young  Arris.  He,  too,  had  had  a  dream  of  playing  for  the 
Rovers.  If  only  young  Arris  could  see  him  now! 

The  "gate"  was  small,  the  afternoon  unpleasant,  the 
match  by  no  means  a  good  one.  The  result  did  not  matter 
to  the  Rovers,  whose  reputation  was  known  wherever  foot- 
ball was  played.  In  the  view  of  the  ruling  powers  of  that 
old  and  famous  club,  who  sat  in  the  center  of  the  grand- 
stand, the  object  of  this  rather  scratch  game  was  not  glory 
but  the  discovery  of  new  talent.  But  small  as  the  audience 
was,  it  contained  a  personage  of  vast  consequence,  who  sa« 
like  Olympian  Zeus  enthroned  on  high  with  his  satellites 
around  him. 

He  was  a  majestic  figure  whose  importance  could  be  seen 
at  a  glance.  His  expansive  fur  coat,  his  superb  contour, 
his  spats,  his  red  face,  the  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  and  the 
large  cigar  with  a  band  round  it  stuck  in  the  side  of  his 
mouth,  were  a  guaranty  of  status,  apart  from  any  con- 
sideration of  supreme  capacity.  Mr.  Augustus  Higginbot- 
tom  was  the  chairman  of  the  club. 

"Who  have  we  got  keepin'  goal?"  said  Olympian  Zeus, 
140 


THE  SAILOR 

as  he  fixed  a  pair  of  gold-rimmed  eyeglasses  on  his  nose  and" 
looked  at  his  card.  "Arper,  I  see.  Who  the  'ell's  Arper  ?" 

"On  trial,  Gus."  Three  or  four  anxiously  officious 
satellites  hastened  to  enlighten  the  chairman. 

"I  rather  like  the  look  o'  Arper."  It  was  as  Plato  might 
have  spoken  had  he  ever  worn  a  fur  coat  and  had  a  large 
cigar  with  a  band  round  it  tucked  in  the  side  of  his  mouth, 
and  had  he  placed  his  services  at  the  disposal  of  the  com- 
mittee of  the  Blackhampton  Rovers  Football  Club  in  order 
to  enable  it  to  distinguish  the  false  from  the  true. 

"Make  and  shape  there,"  said  Mr.  Higginbottom. 
"Light  on  his  pins.  Get's  down  to  the  ball." 

"Oh,  well  stopped,  young  un!"  shouted  an  adventurous 
satellite,  in  order  that  an  official  decree  might  be  promul- 
gated to  the  general  public. 

It  was  known  at  once  round  the  ground  that  the  critics 
had  got  their  eyes  on  the  new  goalkeeper. 

"I've  heard  say,  Gus,"  said  the  adventurous  one,  "that 
this  youth — well  saved,  my  lad! — is  a  sailor." 

"Sailor  is  he?"  Mr.  Higginbottom  was  so  much  im- 
pressed by  the  information  that  he  began  to  chew  the  end 
of  his  cigar.  "Ops  about,  don't  he.  I  tell  you  what,  Al- 
bert"— six  satellites  craned  to  catch  the  chairman's  ukase — 
"I  like  the  cut  o'  the  Sailor." 

"Played,  young  un,"  cried   the  grandstand. 

"Albert,"  said  the  chairman,  "who's  that  cab  oss?" 

"The  right  full  back,  Gus?" 

"Him  I  mean.  He's  no  use."  The  chairman  glanced 
augustly  at  his  card.  "Jukes,  I  see.  Who  the  'ell's  Jukes  ?" 

"On  trial,"  said  Mr.  Satellite  Albert.  "But  I  don't 
altogether  agree  with  you  there,  Gus."  Albert  differed 
deferentially  from  the  chairman.  "There's  nothing  like  a 
touch  o'  Ginger." 

"I  grant  you,"  said  the  chairman.  "But  the  goods  has 
141 


THE  SAILOR 

to  be  there  as  well.    Ginger's  no  class.    Moves  like  a  height- 
year-old  with  the  staggers." 

"Wake  up,  Jukes."  The  official  decree  was  promulgated 
from  the  grandstand. 

It  was  known  at  once  round  the  ground  that  it  was  all 
up  with  Jukes. 

"Chrysanthemum  Top  can't  play  for  rock  cakes  and 
Everton  toffee,"  was  the  opinion  of  the  proletariat  in  the 
sixpenny  stand. 

"Ginger's  no  class,"  said  Mr.  Augustus  Higginbottom. 
"There's  no  class  about  Ginger." 

"Pull  up  your  socks,  Jukes,"  the  grandstand  exhorted 
him. 

Ginger  knew  already,  without  any  official  intimation,  that 
he  was  being  outplayed.  Do  as  he  would  he  did  not  seem 
able  to  mobilize  quickly  enough  to  stop  these  swift  and 
skillful  forwards.  He  had  never  met  anything  like  them 
on  Cox's  Piece.  Ginger  knew  already,  without  any  help 
from  the  grandstand,  that  he  was  out  of  it.  He  was  doing 
his  level  best,  he  was  doing  it  doggedly  with  set  teeth, 
but  the  truth  was  he  felt  like  a  carthorse  compared  with 
these  forwards  of  the  enemy  who  were  racehorses  one  and 
all. 

But  the  Sailor  .  .  .  the  Sailor  was  magnificent  so  far. 
He  had  stopped  every  shot,  and  two  at  least  only  a  goal- 
keeper touched  with  the  divine  fire  could  have  parried. 
Half  time  was  signaled,  and  in  spite  of  the  inefficiency  of 
the  right  full  back,  the  enemy  had  yet  to  score  a  goal. 

As  the  players  walked  off  the  field  to  refit  for  the  second 
half,  a  special  cheer  was  raised  for  young  Harper. 

"Played,  me  lad."  It  was  the  voice  of  the  chairman 
of  the  club  from  the  center  of  the  grandstand. 

"Played,  me  lad."     Three  hundred  throats  echoed  the 
cry.     Zeus  himself  had  spoken. 
142 


THE  SAILOR 

A  ragged  urchin,  who  had  paid  his  threepence  with  the 
best  of  them  and  had  therefore  a  right  to  express  his  opin- 
ion in  a  public  manner,  looked  up  into  the  sweating  face 
and  the  haggard  eyes  of  Ginger  as  he  walked  off  the  ground. 
"Go  'ome,  Ginger.  Yer  can't  play  for  nuts.  Yer  no  class." 

Like  a  sick  gladiator,  Ginger  staggered  into  the  dressing- 
room,  but  in  his  eyes  was  defiance  of  fate  and  not  despair 
of  it. 

"Mate,"  he  said,  in  a  hollow  voice  to  the  attendant, 
"fetch  me  six  pennorth  o'  brandy." 

He  dipped  his  head  into  a  basin  of  cold  water  and  then 
sat  in  a  truculent  silence.  He  did  not  so  much  as  glance  at 
the  Sailor,  who  had  the  rest  of  the  team  around  him. 
Where  did  Harper  come  from?  What  club  did  he  play 
for?  Was  it  true  that  he  had  been  a  sailor? 

Henry  Harper  was  only  able  to  answer  these  questions 
very  shyly  and  imperfectly.  He  was  in  a  dream.  He 
could  hardly  realize  where  he  was  or  what  he  was  doing. 

When  they  returned  to  the  field  of  play,  the  goalkeeper, 
already  a  favorite,  was  given  a  little  private  cheer.  But 
the  Sailor  heard  it  not;  he  was  dreaming,  dreaming,  walk- 
ing on  air. 

"Buck  up,  Ginger,"  piped  the  shrill  urchin,  as  the  tense 
Sand  heroic  figure  of  that  warrior  came  on  the  field  last  of 
'all.  But  the  grim  eyes  and  the  set  face  were  not  in  need 
of  admonition.  Ginger  was  prepared  to  do  or  die. 

"Cab  Oss  can  use  his  weight,"  said  the  All  Highest. 

"First  good  thing  he's  done,"  said  Mr.  Satellite  Albert. 

The  'right  full  back,  it  seemed,  had  charged  like  a  tiger 
at  the  center  forward  of  the  enemy  and  had  laid  him  low. 

"Good  on  yer,  Ginger,"  cried  the  poletariat. 

After  this  episode,  the  game  grew  rough.  And  this  was 
in  Ginger's  favor.  Outclassed  he  might  be  in  pace  and 
skill,  but  no  human  soul  could  outclass  Ginger  in  sheer 
143 


THE  SAILOR 

fighting  quality  when  his  back  was  to  the  wall.  Before 
long  the  stricken  lay  around  him. 

"It  isn't  footba',"  said  Mr.  Augustus  Higginbottom. 
"You  can't  call  it  footba',  but  it's  the  right  game  to  play 
under  the  circumstances." 

It  began  to  seem  that  the  enemy  would  never  score  the 
goal  it  so  much  desired.  The  goalkeeper  kept  up  his  form 
in  quite  a  marvelous  way,  parrying  shot  after  shot  of  every 
range  and  pace  from  all  points  of  the  compass.  He  was  a 
man  inspired.  And  the  right  full  back  was  truly  terrible 
now.  He  had  ceased  to  trouble  about  the  ball,  but  wher- 
ever he  saw  a  red-shirted  adversary  he  brought  him  down 
and  fell  on  him.  Ginger  did  not  achieve  any  particular  feat 
of  arms,  but  his  moral  effect  was  considerable. 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling,  but  not  a  single  goal 
had  been  scored  by  either  party.  The  goalkeeper  grew  more 
and  more  wonderful,  the  right  full  back  was  more  like  a 
lion  than  ever. 

"Blame  my  cats,"  said  Mr.  Augustus  Higginbottom, 
"that  Ginger's  mustard.  But  they'll  never  stan'  him  in  a 
League  match.  What  do  you  say,  Davis?" 

Mr.  Davis,  a  small  buttoned-up  man  in  a  knitted  com- 
forter and  a  brown  bowler  hat,  had  given  far  fewer  opin- 
ions than  his  peers.  He  was  a  man  of  deeds.  He  had 
played  for  England  v.  Scotland  in  his  distinguished  youth, 
but  no  one  would  have  guessed  it  to  look  at  him. 

"Quite  agree,  Gus,"  said  Mr.  Davis,  in  a  measured  tone. 
"Football  is  not  a  game  for  Ginger.  Not  the  man  we  are 
looking  for.  But  that  goalkeeper  .  .  ." 

"That's  all  right,  Davis,"  said  Mr.  Augustus  Higgin- 
bottom, "we  are  going  to  make  no  mistake  about  him." 

Night  fell,  the  referee  blew  his  whistle,  the  match  was  at 
an  end,  and  still  not  a  goal  had  been  scored.  Utterly 
weary,  covered  with  mud  from  head  to  heel,  the  twenty- 
144 


THE  SAILOR 

two  players  trooped  back  to  the  dressing-room.  They  flung 
off  the  reeking  garments  of  battle  and  fought  for  the  icy 
shower  bath,  the  heroic  Ginger  still  the  foremost  in  the  fray. 
"Look  slippy  into  yer  duds,  young  feller,"  he  breathed 
hoarsely  in  the  ear  of  the  Sailor.  "We've  pleadin'  well  got 
to  catch  that  kermittee  afore  it  goes." 


XII 


GINGER  might  have  spared  himself  all  anxiety  in 
regard   to  the  "kermittee."     The  Great  General 
Staff  had  made  up  its  mind  in  the  matter  already. 
The  directors  would  like  to  see  Harper  in  the  committee 
room  before  he  went. 

"What  abaht  me?"  said  Ginger. 

"It's  Harper  they  want  to  see,"  said  their  emissary. 
"They  don't  want  to  see  no  one  else." 

"Oh,  don't  they!"  was  Ginger's  eloquent  comment  to 
himself. 

"Ready,  Harper?"  said  the  emissary,  with  the  air  of  a 
law-giver.  "I'll  show  you  the  way." 

"Come  on,  Sailor  boy,"  said  Ginger,  with  his  affectionate 
avuncular  air,  as  he  gave  a  final  touch,  aided  by  a  hairbrush 
and  a  looking-glass,  to  his  auburn  locks  wThich  he  wore  in 
the  form  of  a  fringe  on  his  forehead. 

"Jukes,  there's  your  expenses,"  said  the  emissary  rather 
haughtily,  as  he  handed  Ginger  a  sovereign.  "The  direc- 
tors don't  require  to  see  you." 

"I'd  like  to  see  them,"  said  the  imperturbable  Ginger. 

"Their  time  is  valuable." 

"So's  mine,"  said  Ginger.    "Come  on,  Sailor  boy." 

The  chairman,  now  enthroned  in  the  committee  room, 
had  short  shrift  for  Ginger. 

H5 


THE  "SAILOR 

"Jukes,"  he  said  with  brutal  directness,  as  he  chewed  the 
end  of  his  cigar,  "\ve  didn't  send  for  you.  You  are  not  the 
Rovers'  sort  and  never  will  be.  You  are  a  trier  an'  all 
that,  you  are  a  good  plucked  un,  but  the  Rovers  is  only 
out  for  one  thing,  an'  that's  class." 

This  oration  was  extremely  well  delivered,  cigar  in 
mouth,  yet  the  committee  seemed  to  be  more  impressed  by 
it  than  Ginger  himself. 

"That's  right,  Gus,"  said  Mr.  Satellite  Albert.  "Those 
are  our  views." 

Mr.  Augustus  Higginbottom  might  have  expressed  the 
views  of  the  committee,  but  it  did  not  appear  that  they 
were  the  views  of  Mr.  W.  H.  Jukes.  That  warrior  stood, 
tweed  cap  in  hand,  the  Sailor  by  his  side,  as  though  they 
did  not  in  any  way  concern  him. 

"You  understand,  Jukes?"  said   the  chairman. 

No  reply. 

"Arper  here  is  the  man  we  sent  for.  Arper" — the  im- 
pressiveness  of  Mr.  Higginbottom  was  very  carefully  cal- 
culated— "you've  no  polish,  me  lad,  you  lack  experience, 
you  are  young,  you've  got  to  grow  and  you've  got  to  learn, 
but  you  might  make  a  goalkeeper  if  you  was  took  in  hand 
by  the  Rovers.  Understand  me,  Arper," — the  chairman 
raised  an  eloquent  forefinger — "I  say  ye  might  if  you  was . 
took  in  hand  an'  trained  by  a  club  o'  the  class  o'  the  Rovers. 
But  you've  a  long  way  to  go.  Do  you  understand,  me  lad?" 

"Yes,  mister,"  said  the  Sailor  humbly. 

The  "mister"  jarred  horribly  upon  the  sensitive  ear  of 
Mr.  W.  H.  Jukes,  who  whispered,  "Call  him  'sir/  yer 
fool." 

"Very   well,    then,"    proceeded    Mr.    Augustus    Higgin- 
bottom, "now  we'll  come  to  business.     My  feller  directors" 
— the  chairman  waved  a  magniloquent  hand — "agrees  with 
me  that  the  Rovers  can  offer  you  a  pound  a  week  because 
146 


THE  SAILOR 

you  are  promisin',  although  not  justified  as  you  are  at  pres- 
ent.    Now  what  do  you  say?" 

"Nothin'  doin',''  said  Mr.  W.  H.  Jukes,  before  the  goal- 
keeper could  say  anything.  "Come  on,  Sailor  boy.  We  are 
wastin'  our  time.  We'll  be  gettin'  to  the  station." 

"My  remarks,  Jukes,  was  not  addressed  to  you,"  said 
the  chairman  with  awful  dignity.  "The  directors  has  no 
use  for  your  services,  as  I  thought  I  'ad  made  clear." 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  said  Ginger,  with  a  considered  polite- 
ness that  seemed  rather  to  surprise  the  committee.  "Come 
on,  Sailor.  A  quid  a  week!  I  think  we  can  do  better  nor 
that." 

"One  moment,"  said  Mr.  Augustus  Higginbottom. 
There  was  a  hurried  consultation  while  Ginger  and  the 
goalkeeper  began  to  move  to  the  door.  "One  moment, 
Arper." 

Ginger,  drawing  the  Sailor  after  him,  returned  with' 
every  sign  of  reluctance  to  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"Jukes,"  said  the  chairman,  "you  have  nothing  to  do 
with  this  matter,  anyway." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Ginger,  with  a  deference  he  was  very  far 
from  feeling. 

"You  quite  understand  that,  Jukes?" 
^     "Yes,    sir,"   said    Ginger,    with    formidable   politeness. 

"Very  good.  Now,  Arper,  the  directors  is  prepared  to 
rise  to  twenty-five  shillings  a  week,  an'  that's  their  limit." 

"I'm  sorry,  gentlemen,"  said  Ginger,  "but  twenty-five 
bob  a  week  is  not  a  bit  o'  use  to  either  on  us.  We  like  the 
town  what  we've  seen  on  it,  but  two  pound  a  week's  our 
minimum.  It's  only  wastin'  time  to  talk  of  less.  If  we 
ain't  worth  two  pound  a  week  to  the  Blackhampton  Rovers, 
I  dessey  we'll  be  worth  it  to  the  Otspur  or  the  Villa.  Come 
on,  Sailor.  We're  only  wastin'  our  time,  boy." 

This  carefully  delivered  ultimatum  made  quite  a  sensa- 
147 


THE  SAILOR 

tion.  There  was  not  one  of  the  committee  who  would 
not  cheerfully  have  slain  Mr.  W.  H.  Jukes.  But  they 
wanted  that  goalkeeper  very  badly.  Moreover,  the  mention 
of  the  Hotspur  and  the  Villa  did  not  lessen  this  desire. 

"One  moment,  Jukes." 

A  further  consultation  followed.  This  matter  called  for 
very  masterful  and,  at  the  same  time,  very  delicate  handling. 

Mr.  Augustus  Higginbottom  went  to  the  length  of  re- 
moving his  cigar  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"See  here,  Jukes,"  said  he,  "it's  not  you  we  want,  it's 
the  goalkeeper.  Now,  Arper,  I  am  empowered  by  my  feller 
directors  to  offer  you  two  pound  a  week  with  a  rise  next 
year  if  you  turn  out  satisfactory." 

"That's  more  like  it,"  said  Ginger  coolly.  "Two  pound 
a  week  and  a  rise  next  year.  What  do  you  say,  Sailor  boy? 
Or  do  you  think  it  would  be  better  to  see  the  Villa?" 

It  was  as  much  as  the  chairman  could  do  to  keep  from 
pitching  Jukes  out  of  the  room.  His  cheek  was  amazing, 
but  if  this  course  was  taken,  it  was  clear  that  Harper  would 
not  adorn  his  person  with  a  chocolate  and  blue  shirt. 

The  unlucky  fact  was  that  the  goalkeeper  and  the  right 
full  back  had  only  one  mind  between  them.  And  that  mind 
was  not  in  the  possession  of  the  goalkeeper. 

"We've  allus  played  together,"  said  Ginger,  "and  we 
allus  shall.  I've  taught  him  all  he  knows — haven't  I,  Sailor 
boy?" 

"Yep,"  said  the  Sailor,  coming  humbly  into  the  conversa- 
tion for  the  first  time. 

"We've  allus  played  for  the  same  club,  we  lodge  to- 
gether, we  work  together,  we  are  pals  in  everythink — ain't 
we,  Sailor  boy?" 

"Yep,"  said  the  Sailor. 

"And  if  you  don't  want  us  it's  all  the  same  to  us — ain't 
it,  Sailor  boy?" 

148 


THE  SAILOR 

"Yep,"  said  the  Sailor. 

There  followed  a  final  consultation  between  the  chair- 
man of  the  club  and  his  fellow  committee-men.  But  only 
one  conclusion  to  the  matter  was  possible.  The  Black- 
hampton  Rovers  must  either  accept  'Mr.  W.  H.  Jukes  with 
all  his  limitations,  or  lose  the  type  of  goalkeeper  they  had 
been  seeking  up  and  down  the  land  for  many  a  year. 


XIII 

TO  the  Sailor,  the  visit  to  Blackhampton  was  a  fairy 
tale.  At  first,  he  could  not  realize  that  he  had  worn 
the  chocolate  and  blue,  and  had  performed  wonder- 
ful deeds  at  the  instance  of  a  power  beyond  himself.  As 
for  the  sequel,  involving  a  farewell  to  the  wharf  of  Ant- 
cliff  and  Jackson,  Limited,  and  a  triumphal  return  to  his 
natal  city  as  a  salaried  player  of  the  Rovers,  even  when 
this  had  really  happened,  it  was  very  hard  to  believe. 

Ginger  took  the  credit.  And  if  he  had  not  had  a  talent 
for  affairs  these  things  could  not  have  come  about.  It  was 
entirely  due  to  him  that  Henry  Harper  learned  to  play 
football,  and  had  he  not  mastered  the  art,  it  is  unlikely  that 
he  would  ever  have  found  the  key  to  his  life. 

The  Sailor  was  a  simple,  modest  soul.  He  felt  the  sudden 
turn  of  fortune's  wheel  was  due  to  no  grace  of  his  own. 
From  that  amazing  hour  when  certain  documents  were 
signed  and  Henry  Harper,  who  had  suffered  terrible  things 
to  gain  a  few  dollars  a  month,  began  to  draw  a  salary  of 
two  pounds  a  week  with  surprisingly  little  to  do  in  order 
to  earn  it,  his  devotion  to  Ginger  became  almost  that  of  a 
dog  for  its  master. 

They  both  had  their  feet  on  the  ladder  now,  if  ever  two 
young  men  had.  It  might  be  luck,  it  might  be  pluck,  it 
149 


THE  SAILOR 

might  be  a  combination  of  anything  you  chose  to  call  it,  but 
there  it  was;  two  untried  men  had  imposed  their  per- 
sonalities upon  some  of  the  shrewdest  judges  of  football 
in  the  United  Kingdom.  The  Sailor  had  shown  genius  on 
the  field ;  Ginger  had  shown  genius  of  a  kind  more  valuable. 

On  the  Monday  week  following  their  triumph,  they 
invaded  Blackhampton  again.  This  time  they  were  accom- 
panied not  merely  by  their  Gladstone  bags  and  their  velvet- 
collared  overcoats,  but  they  came  with  the  whole  of  their 
worldly  goods. 

They  obtained — "they"  meaning  Ginger — some  quite  first- 
rate  lodgings  in  Newcastle  Street,  near  the  canal.  These  had 
been  recommended  by  Dinkie  Dawson,  who  lodged  in  the 
next  street  but  two.  The  charges  of  the  new  landlady, 
Miss  Gwladys  Foldal,  were  much  higher  than  those  of  Mrs. 
Sparks,  but  the  accommodation  was  Class  compared  to 
Paradise  Alley.  As  Ginger  informed  the  Sailor,  socially 
they  had  taken  a  big  step  up. 

For  example,  Miss  Foldal  herself  was,  in  Ginger's  opin- 
ion, far  more  a  woman  of  the  world  than  Mrs.  Sparks. 
Her  hair  was  golden,  it  was  always  amazingly  curled  about 
tea  time,  when  she  had  newly  powdered  her  nose;  she  main- 
tained a  "slavey"  and  did  little  of  the  housework  herself, 
apparently  never  soiling  her  well-kept  hands  with  any- 
thing menial;  also  she  had  an  undoubted  gift  of  conversa- 
tion, could  play  the  piano,  and  if  much  entreated  would 
lift  occasionally  an  agreeable  voice  in  song;  in  a  word, 
Miss  Foldal  was  a  lady  versed  in  the  enchantments  of  good 
society. 

The  Sailor  was  quite  overawed  at  first  by  Miss  Foldal. 
Always  very  responsive  to  the  impact  of  her  sex,  a  word 
or  a  look  from  the  least  of  its  members  was  enough  to 
embarrass  him.  Miss  Foldal,  with  her  tempered  brilliancy 
and  her  matured  charm,  impressed  him  greatly. 
ISO 


THE  SAILOR 

Even  Ginger,  who  was  so  cynical  in  regard  to  ladies  in 
general  and  landladies  in  particular,  was  inclined  to  approve 
her.  This  was  a  great  concession  on  Ginger's  part,  be- 
cause up  till  then  there  were  only  two  persons  in  the 
universe  whom  Ginger  did  approve,  one  being  himself, 
whom  he  approved  wholeheartedly,  the  other  being  Dinkie 
Dawson,  whom  he  accepted  with  reservations. 

Ginger  and  the  Sailor  soon  settled  down  in  their  new 
quarters.  They  were  well  received  by  their  fellow  players. 
They  must  not  look  beyond  the  second  team  at  present,  so 
august  was  the  circle  in  which  they  now  moved,  but  Harper 
was  "the  goods"  undoubtedly;  one  of  these  days  the  world 
would  hear  of  him;  while  as  for  Jukes,  although  without 
genius  as  a  player  he  was  such  a  trier  that  he  was  bound  to 
improve.  Indeed,  he  began  to  improve  in  every  match  in 
which  he  appeared  in  this  exalted  company.  His  time  was 
not  yet,  but  the  directors  of  the  club,  resentful  as  they 
were  of  the  coup  that  Ginger  had  played,  shrewdly  foresaw 
that  a  man  of  such  will  and  determination  might  one  day 
prove  a  sound  investment. 

These  were  golden  days  for  the  Sailor.  The  perils  and 
the  hardships  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey,  the  titanic  fights 
with  nature,  the  ceaseless  struggles  on  the  yards  of  that 
crazy  vessel  in  order  to  save  himself  from  being  dashed  to 
pieces  on  the  deck  below,  had  been  such  a  training  for  his 
present  life  as  nothing  else  could  have  been. 

It  was  now  for  the  first  time  that  Henry  Harper  began 
to  envisage  that  queer  thing,  Himself.  He  was  never  at  any 
period  an  egotist  in  a  narrow  way.  Fate  had  mercilessly 
flogged  a  sense  Ot  proportion  into  him  at  the  threshold  of 
his  life;  whatever  the  future  had  in  store  he  would  never 
be  able  to  forget  that  man  himself  is  a  creature  of  strange, 
terrible,  and  tragic  destiny.  As  soon  as  a  little  prosperity 
came  to  him,  he  began  to  develop.  The  respect  of  others 


THE  SAILOR 

for  the  accidental  prowess  he  wore  so  unassumingly,  good 
food,  regular  habits,  a  sense  of  security,  did  much  for  Henry 
Harper  in  this  critical  phase  of  his  fortunes. 

First  he  learned  to  take  a  pride  in  his  body.  That  was  a 
very  simple  ethic  of  the  great  religion  to  be  revealed  to  him. 
He  was  quick  to  see  that  he  was  one  of  a  company  of  highly 
trained  athletes  whom  nature  had  endowed  nobly.  To- 
gether with  his  fellow  players,  he  was  exercised  with  as 
much  care  as  if  he  had  been  a  racehorse.  He  was  bathed 
and  massaged,  groomed  and  tended;  such  a  sense  of  physi- 
cal well-being  came  to  him  that  he  could  not  help  growing 
in  grace  and  beauty,  in  strength  and  freedom  of  mind  and 
soul. 

After  several  weeks  of  this  new  and  wonderful  life  there 
was  still  a  dark  secret  that  continued  to  haunt  the  Sailor. 
He  could  neither  read  nor  write,  and  he  was  living  in  a 
world  in  which  these  accomplishments  were  taken  for 
granted.  He  had  to  conceal  the  fact  as  best  he  could. 
None  must  know,  but  a  means  would  have  to  be  found  of 
overcoming  this  stigma. 

He  dared  not  speak  of  it  to  Ginger,  or  to  Miss  Foldal 
either,  much  as  he  liked  and  respected  her.  He  remem- 
bered the  face  of  Mrs.  Sparks.  But  after  giving  much 
thought  to  the  matter,  he  made  cautious  inquiries,  and  then 
one  morning  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  a 
fool.  Here  was  Henry  Harper  in  his  native  city  of  Black- 
hampton,  certain  parts  of  which  he  knew  like  the  back  of 
his  hand,  and  yet  he  had  forgotten  the  night  school  in 
Driver's  Lane  that  Cocky  Footit  and  Leary  Jeacock  went 
to  and  never  did  any  good  afterwards. 

The  thought  hit  the  Sailor  hard  as  he  was  seated  at  hie 

princely  breakfast  of  eggs  and  bacon,  very  choicely  fried, 

and  such  a  cup  of  coffee  as  any  man  might  have  envied 

him.     He  remembered  how  seven  years  ago,  in  the  Cocky 

152 


THE  SAILOR 

Footit  and  Leary  Jeacock  days,  he  simply  daren't  go  home 
at  night  unless  he  had  sold  a  certain  number  of  Evening 
Stars.  And  what  a  home  it  was  for  any  boy  to  go  to! 

In  spite  of  the  eggs  and  bacon  and  the  warm  fire  and 
Ginger  seated  opposite  with  the  Athletic  News  propped 
against  the  coffee  pot,  a  shudder  crept  through  Henry 
Harper.  He  regretted  bitterly  that  he  should  have  allowed 
his  thoughts  to  stray.  But  how  could  they  go  back  to 
Cocky  Footit  and  Leary  Jeacock  and  the  night  school  they 
attended  in  Driver's  Lane,  without  taking  a  leap  unbidden 
to  that  other  lane  which  ran  level  with  Driver's,  with  the 
rag  and  bone  yard  and  the  iron  gates  where  dwelt  Auntie 
and  her  cart  whip,  the  only  home  at  that  time  he  had 
known  ? 

He  couldn't  help  shuddering  at  the  picture  in  his  mind. 
Where  was  Auntie  now  ?  How  would  she  look  to  one  who 
had  sailed  before  the  mast  over  all  the  oceans  of  the  world  ? 

The  subject  of  Auntie  had  a  morbid  fascination.  It 
held  him  as  completely  as  the  night  school  in  Driver's  Lane. 
The  truth  was,  it  was  impossible  to  recall  the  one  without 
envisaging  the  other. 

As  soon  as  he  had  finished  breakfast,  he  put  on  the  over- 
coat \vith  the  velvet  collar  and  the  smart  tweed  cap,  stepped 
into  Newcastle  Street  and  began  to  wander  across  the  canal 
bridge.  Then  he  turned  to  the  right  through  Clover  Street, 
crossed  the  tram  lines,  passed  the  Crown  and  Cushion,  his 
favorite  public-house  of  yore,  where  he  had  listened  many 
an  evening  to  the  music  and  singing  that  floated  through 
the  swing  doors,  with  always  a  half  formed  thought  at  the 
back  of  his  mind  which  he  dared  not  face.  As  of  old,  he 
stood  to  listen,  but  there  was  no  music  now,  for  it  was  only 
ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  it  didn't  begin  until  seven 
at  night. 

He  was  not  afraid  of  the  life  of  seven  years  ago.  As  he 
153 


THE  SAILOR 

stood  outside  the  Crown  and  Cushion  that  was  the  idea 
which  exalted  him.  Henry  Harper  was  not  obliged  to 
meet  Auntie,  but  was  going  to  do  so  out  of  curiosity,  and 
because  he  owed  it  to  himself  to  prove  that  he  no  longer 
went  in  fear  of  her. 

That  might  be  so,  but  as  he  passed  through  the  old 
familiar  streets  and  alleys,  with  bareheaded  Aunties  stand- 
ing arms  akimbo  in  conversation  with  the  neighbors,  while 
many  a  Henry  Harper  sprawled  half  naked  in  the  gutter, 
his  courage  almost  failed.  The  slums  of  Blackhampton 
had  changed  less  than  he  in  seven  years. 

Yes,  this  was  Crow's  Yard.  And  there  at  the  door  of 
No.  I,  as  of  yore,  was  Mother  Crow,  toothless  and  yellow, 
unspeakably  foul  of  word  and  aspect,  whose  man  often 
threatened  to  swing  for  her  and  finally  swung  for  another. 
Henry  Harper  stole  swiftly  through  Crow's  Yard,  fearing 
at  every  step  that  he  would  be  recognized. 

With  a  thudding  heart,  he  came  into  Wright's  Lane.  It 
was  like  a  horrible  dream ;  he  nearly  turned  and  ran.  What 
if  Auntie  was  still  there?  He  had  just  seen  Mother  Crow 
and  Meg  Baker  and  Cock-eyed  Polly  and  others  of  her 
circle.  Well,  if  she  was  .  .  .  ? 

The  beating  of  his  heart  would  not  let  him  meet  the 
question.  He  ought  not  to  have  come.  All  the  same,  there 
was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  now. 

No,  there  was  nothing  to  be.  ...  Again  he  nearly 
turned  and  ran.  The  iron  gates  were  before  him.  There 
were  the  piles  of  stinking  bones,  old  newspapers,  foul  rags, 
sc:ap  iron,  and  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends.  And  there  was 
the  broken-down  handcart  he  had  trundled  so  often  through 
the  mud.  The  wheels  were  still  on  it,  but  they  looked  like 
new  ones.  And  there  on  the  wall  of  the  shed  was  the  nail. 

A  sick  thrill  passed  through  Henry  Harper.  He  couldn't 
make  out  in  the  thick  November  halflight  whether  on 
154 


THE  SAILOR 

that  nail  there  was  really  what  he  thought  there  was.  A 
wave  of  curiosity  forced  him  to  enter  the  yard.  The  whip 
was  hanging  there  as  usual.  The  heavy  handle  bound  with 
strips  of  brass  shone  through  the  gloom.  The  sight  of  it 
seemed  again  to  hold  him  in  a  thrall  of  terror.  As  if  it 
were  a  nightmare  he  fought  to  throw  it  off.  He  had 
been  a  sailor;  he  was  the  goalkeeper  for  the  Blackhampton 
Rovers ;  he  was  earning  two  pounds  a  week ;  he  had  a  velvet 
collar  to  his  overcoat;  there  was  no  need  to  be  afraid  of  ... 

"Now,  young  man?" 

A  thick,  wheezy  grunt  came  out  of  the  inner  murk  of  the 
yard  and  sent  a  chill  down  the  spine  of  Henry  Harper. 

"What  can  I  do  for  yer?" 

Auntie,  cheerfully  alcoholic  as  ever,  stood  before  him  in 
all  her  shapeless  obscenity.  She  stood  as  of  old,  exuding  gin 
and  humor  and  latent  savagery.  She  had  changed  so  little 
that  he  felt  he  had  not  changed  either.  At  first  he  could 
not  believe  that  she  did  not  recognize  him. 

Auntie  stood  eyeing  him  with  disfavor.  The  good  clothes, 
the  clean  collar,  the  polished  boots  told  against  him  heavily. 
Most  probably  a  detective. 

"What  do  you  want  for  that,  missus?"  He  pointed  to 
the  nail. 

"Not  for  sale."  The  light  he  had  seen  so  often  sprang 
to  her  eyes.  "You  can  have  anythink  else.  Scrap  iron, 
rags  and  bones,  waste  paper,  bedsteads,  but  yer  can't  have 
that"  And  Auntie  looked  at  him,  wheezing  humorously 
at  the  idea  of  anyone  wanting  to  buy  such  an  article.  Sud- 
denly Henry  Harper  met  again  the  eyes  of  Medusa  in  their 
depth  and  power. 

At  once  he  knew  why  he  had  stayed  those  long  years 

under  her  roof.     It  was  not  merely  that  he  had  nowhere 

else  to  go.    There  was  a  living  devil  in  the  soul  of  Auntie 

and  it  was  far  stronger  than  anything  at  present  in  the  soul 

11  155 


THE  SAILOR 

of  Henry  Harper.  Already  he  could  feel  the  old  helpless 
terror  striking  into  him  again.  He  was  forgetting  that 
he  had  been  a  sailor,  he  was  forgetting  the  Blackhampton 
Rovers,  he  was  forgetting  his  two  pounds  a  week.  .  .  . 

"Well,  missus,  if  yer  won't,  yer  won't,"  he  said,  with' 
a  mighty  effort  of  the  will. 

Auntie  laughed  her  old  rich  note  of  genial  defiance,  as  if 
an  affection  for  a  thing  of  little  value  and  less  use  must  be 
defended.  As  she  did  so,  a  miserable  cur  sneaked  out 
through  the  open  door  of  the  house  beyond  the  archway. 
She  turned  to  it  humorously. 

"I  thought  I  told  you  to  keep  in." 

The  dog  cast  a  look  at  her  and  sneaked  in  again. 

"Mornin',  missus." 

"Mornin',  young  man.  Sorry  I  can't  oblige  yer."  It 
was  the  old  note  of  affability  that  always  endeared  her  to 
the  neighbors. 

But  it  was  not  of  Auntie  that  Henry  Harper  was  think- 
ing when  he  got  into  Wright's  Lane.  It  was  of  the  dog. 
In  the  eyes  of  that  animal  he  had  seen  his  former  self. 


XIV 

IT  had  been  Henry  Harper's  intention  to  go  on  across 
the  Lammas  and  make  inquiries  about  the  night  school. 
But  his  courage  suddenly  failed.     As  soon  as  he  got 
into  Wright's  Lane,  he  felt  that  for  one  day  at  least  he  had 
seen  enough  of  the  haunts  of  his  youth. 

As  he  stood  at  the  corner,  trying  to  make  up  his  mind 
what  to  do,  an  intense  longing  for  Newcastle  Street  came 
upon  him.  It  seemed  wiser  to  postpone  the  night  school 
until  the  afternoon. 

He  had  not  expected  to  find  the  other  side  of  the  canal 
156 


THE  SAILOR 

quite  so  bad  as  it  had  proved  to  be.  It  seemed  ages  away 
in  point  of  experience.  There  was  no  place  for  good 
clothes,  a  clean  collar,  and  polished  boots  in  the  region  the 
other  side  of  the  canal.  It  was  very  unfortunate  that  the 
night  school  lay  in  the  middle  of  that  area. 

Henry  Harper  was  in  an  unhappy  frame  of  mind  when 
he  sat  down  to  dinner  with  Ginger  at  one  o'clock.  A  very 
bad  aura  enveloped  him.  The  sight  of  Auntie  in  her  lair 
would  take  him  some  little  time  to  overcome.  Then  the 
sense  of  failure  was  unpleasant.  It  was  unworthy  of  a 
sailor  to  have  shirked  his  job.  Every  day  made  it  more 
necessary  for  something  to  be  done.  His  pretence  of  under- 
standing the  newspapers  when  he  could  hardly  read  a  word 
was  telling  against  him  with  Ginger.  His  contribution  to 
the  after-supper  conversation  was  so  feeble,  as  a  rule,  that 
Ginger  was  almost  afraid  "he  was  not  all  there." 

However,  he  would  inquire  about  the  night  school  that 
afternoon.  The  matter  was  so  urgent  that  he  could  have 
no  peace  until  he  had  moved  in  it.  But  fate,  having  taken 
his  measure,  began  to  marshal  silent  invisible  forces. 

To  begin  with  the  forces  were  silent  enough,  yet  they 
were  not  exactly  invisible.  A  little  after  three,  while  the 
Sailor,  still  in  the  Valley  of  Decision,  was  looking  into  the 
fire,  wondering  whether  it  was  possible  after  all  to  postpone 
the  task  until  the  following  morning  wrhen  he  might  be  in 
a  better  frame  of  mind,  Ginger  looked  out  of  the  window, 
announced  that  "there  wasn't  half  a  fog  coming  over,"  and 
that  he  hr  a  good  mind  to  make  himself  comfortable  in- 
doors for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

This  was  enough  for  the  Sailor.  The  fog  put  the  night 
school  out  of  the  question  for  that  afternoon;  it  must  be 
postponed  till  the  morrow.  All  the  same,  he  fell  into  a 
black  and  bitter  mood  in  which  self-disgust  came  upper- 
most. 

157 


THE  SAILOR 

Ginger's  good  mind  to  stay  indoors  did  not  materialize. 
As  soon  as  the  clock  chimed  four  he  remembered  that  he 
had  to  play  a  hundred  up  with  Dinkie  at  the  Crown  and 
Cushion. 

At  quarter-past  four,  Miss  Foldal  came  in,  drew  down 
the  blinds,  lit  the  gas,  and  laid  the  cloth  for  tea.  She  then 
sought  permission,  as  the  fire  was  such  a  good  one,  to  toast 
a  muffin  at  it,  which  she  proceeded  to  do  with  the  elegance 
that  marked  her  in  everything. 

The  Sailor  had  never  seen  anybody  quite  so  elegant  as 
Miss  Foldal  in  the  afternoon.  The  golden  hair  was  curled 
and  crimped,  the  blonde  complexion  freshly  powdered,  there 
was  a  superb  display  of  jewelry  upon  a  fine  bosom,  she 
was  tightly  laced,  and  the  young  man  watching  her  with 
grave  curiosity  heard  her  stays  creak  as  she  bent  down  at 
the  fire. 

Two  ladies  further  apart  than  Miss  Foldal  and  Auntie 
would  be  hard  to  conceive.  Dimly  the  young  man  had 
begun  to  realize  that  it  was  a  very  queer  cosmos  in  which 
he  had  been  called  to  exercise  his  being.  There  were  whole 
stellar  spaces  between  Auntie  and  Miss  Foldal. 

The  latter  lady  was  not  merely  elegant,  she  was  kind. 
Miss  Foldal  was  very  kind  indeed  to  Mr.  Harper.  From 
the  day  he  had  entered  her  house,  she  had  shown  in  many 
subtle  ways  that  she  wanted  to  make  him  feel  at  home. 
And  Mr.  Harper,  who  up  till  now  only  realized  Woman 
extrinsically,  already  considered  Miss  Foldal  a  very  nice 
lady. 

It  was  true  that  Ginger  referred  to  her  rather  contemp- 
tuously as  Old  Tidde-fol-lol,  and  saw,  or  affected  to  see, 
something  deep  in  her  most  innocent  actions.  But  the 
Sailor,  with  a  natural  reverence  for  her  sex  in  spite  of  all 
he  had  suffered  at  its  hands,  was  constrained  to  believe 
these  slighting  references  to  Old  Tidde-fol-lol  were  lapses 
158 


THE  SAILOR 

of  taste  on  the  part  of  his  hero.  Homer  nods  on  occasion. 
Henry  Harper  was  not  acquainted  with  that  impressive 
fact  at  this  period  of  his  life,  but  he  was  sure  that 
Ginger  was  a  little  unfortunate  in  his  references  to  Miss 
FoldaL 

The  Sailor  was  beginning  to  like  Miss  Foldal  immensely. 
He  did  not  go  beyond  that.  The  great  apparition  of 
Woman  in  her  cardinal  aspect  had  not  yet  appeared  to  him, 
and  was  not  to  do  so  for  long  days  to  come.  As  Ginger 
said,  he  was  a  kid  at  present,  and  hardly  knew  he  was  born. 
Still,  he  was  beginning  to  take  notice. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  pour  out  your  tea,  Mr.  Harper?" 

"Thank  you,  miss."  He  was  no  longer  so  ignorant  as  to 
say,  "Thank  you,  lady." 

"Sugar?" 

"Please,  miss." 

He  admired  immensely  the  manipulation  of  the  sugar 
tongs  by  those  elegant  hands.  They  were  inclined  to  be  fat 
and  were  perhaps  rather  broad  to  the  purview  of  a  connois- 
seur, but  they  were  covered  in  rings  set  with  stones  more 
or  less  precious,  and  the  soul  of  Henry  Harper  responded 
instinctively  to  all  that  they  meant  and  stood  for.  The 
hands  of  Auntie  were  not  as  these. 

"You  do  take  two  lumps  and  milk,  of  course?" 

There  was  an  ease  and  a  charm  about  Miss  Foldal  that 
made  the  Sailor  think  of  velvet. 

"Now  take  a  piece  of  muffin  while  it's  warm." 

She  offered  the  muffin,  already  steeped  in  delicious  butter, 
with  the  slightly  imperious  charm  of  a  Madame  Recamier, 
not  that  Henry  Harper  knew  any  more  about  Madame 
Recamier  than  he  did  about  Homer  at  this  period  of  his 
career.  Yet  he  may  have  known  all  about  them  even  then. 
He  may  have  known  all  about  them  and  forgotten  all 
about  them,  and  when  the  time  came  to  unseal  the  inner 
159 


THE  SAILOR 

chambers  of  his  consciousness,  perhaps  he  would  remember 
them  again. 

Auntie  had  never  handed  him  a  muffin  in  such  a  way  as 
that.  Mrs.  Sparks  hadn't  either.  Ginger  might  sneer  and 
call  her  Old  Tidde-fol-lol,  although  not  to  her  face — he  was 
always  very  polite  to  her  face — but  there  was  no  doubt  she 
was  absolutely  a  lady,  and  her  muffins  .  .  .  her  muffins 
were  extra. 

This  afternoon,  Miss  Foldal  lingered  over  the  tea  table 
in  most  agreeable  discourse.  The  fog  was  too  thick  for  her 
to  venture  into  the  market  place,  where  she  wanted  to  go. 

"If  it's  shopping  you  want,  miss,"  said  Mr.  Harper, 
with  an  embarrassment  that  made  her  smile,  "let  me  go  and 
do  it  for  you." 

"I  couldn't  think  of  it,  Mr.  Harper." 

"I  will,  miss,  I'll  be  very  glad  to."  She  liked  the  deep 
eyes  of  this  strikingly  handsome  young  man. 

"I  couldn't  think  of  it,  Mr.  Harper.  I  couldn't  really. 
Besides,  my  shopping  will  keep  till  tomorrow." 

"You  know  best,  miss."  There  was  resignation  tempered 
by  a  certain  chivalrous  disappointment.  Quite  uncon- 
sciously, Mr.  Harper  was  doing  his  utmost  to  rise  to  the 
standard  of  speech  and  manner  of  Miss  Foldal,  which  was 
far  beyond  any  he  had  yet  experienced. 

"I  saw  in  the  Evening  Star  that  you  won  your  match  on 
Saturday." 

"Yes,  miss,  four-two."  But  the  mention  of  the  Evening 
Star  was  a  stab.  Every  night  the  Evening  Star  presented 
its  tragic  problem. 

"Mr.  Jukes  tells  me  you  will  be  having  a  trial  with  the 
first  team  soon." 

Mr.  Jukes  had  told  Miss  Foldal  nothing  of  the  kind. 
She  was  the  last  person  to  whom  he  would  have  made  any 
such  confidence. 

160 


THE  SAILOR 

"Oh  no,  miss."  The  native  modesty  was  pleasant  in  her 
ear.  "I'm  nothing  near  good  enough  yet." 

"It  will  come,  though.    It  is  bound  to  come." 

The  young  man  was  not  stirred  by  this  prophecy.  His 
mind  had  gone  back  to  the  night  school;  it  was  tormenting 
itself  with  the  problem  ever  before  it  now.  He  would  have 
liked  to  bring  the  conversation  round  to  the  matter,  if  only 
it  could  be  done  without  disclosing  the  deadly  secret.  But 
the  memory  of  Mrs.  Sparks  was  still  fresh.  There  was  no 
denying  that  for  a  chap  of  nineteen  not  to  have  the  ele- 
ments of  the  three  r's  was  a  disgrace;  it  was  bound  to  preju- 
dice him  in  the  eyes  of  a  lady  of  education. 

Still,  Miss  Foldal  was  not  Mrs.  Sparks.  Being  a  higher 
sort  of  lady  perhaps  she  would  be  able  to  make  allowances. 
Yet  Henry  Harper  didn't  want  her  or  anyone  else  to  make 
allowances.  However,  he  could  not  afford  to  be  proud. 

Chance  it,  suddenly  decreed  the  voice  within.  She  won't 
eat  you  anyway. 


XV 


MISS  FOLDAL,  it  seemed,  had  been  trained  in  her 
youth  for  a  board  school  teacher.    In  a  brief  flash 
of  autobiography,  she  told  Mr.  Harper  she  had 
never  really  graduated  in  that  trying  profession,  but  had 
forsaken  a  career  eminently  honorable  for  the  more  doubt- 
ful one  of  the  stage,  and  had  spent  the  rest  of  her  life  in 
regretting  it.     But  always  at  the  back  of  her  mind  was 
the  sense  of  her  original  calling  to  leaven  the  years  of  her 
later  fall  from  grace. 

Not  only  Miss  Foldal,  but  the  Sailor  also  was  quick  to 
see  the  hand  of  Providence,  when  that  young  man,  coloring 
pink  in  the  gaslight  and  eating  his  last  muffin,  made  the 
161 


THE  SAILOR 

admission,  "that  his  readin'  an'  writin'  was  rusty  because 
of  havin'  followed  the  sea."  And  she  answered,  "Reelly," 
in  her  own  inimitable  way,  to  which  the  Sailor  rejoined, 
"Yes,  miss,  reelly,  and  do  you  fink  you  could  recommend  a 
night  school?" 

"Night  school,  Mr.  Harper?"  And  this  was  where  the 
higher  kind  of  lady  was  able  to  claim  superiority  over  Mrs. 
Sparks.  "Please  don't  think  me  impertinent,  but  I  would 
be  delighted  to  help  you  all  I  could.  You  see,  I  was  trained 
for  a  pupil  teacher  before  I  went  on  the  stage  against  my 
father's  wishes." 

The  heart  of  the  Sailor  leaped.  In  that  tone  of  sincere 
kindness  was  the  wish  to  be  of  use.  If  Miss  Foldal  had 
been  trained  as  a  pupil  teacher,  the  night  school  in  Driver's 
Lane  might  not  be  necessary,  after  all. 

"What  do  you  want  to  learn?"  said  Miss  Foldal,  with 
a  display  of  grave  interest.  "I  am  afraid  my  French  is 
rather  rusty  and  I  never  had  much  Latin  and  Italian  to 
speak  of." 

The  Sailor  was  thrilled. 

"Don't  want  no  French,  miss,"  he  said,  "or  anythinlc 
swankin'.  I  just  want  to  read  the  Evenin  Star  an'  be  able 
to  write  a  letter." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say "     Like  the  lady  she  was,  she 

checked  herself  very  adroitly.  "I  am  quite  sure,  Mr. 
Harper,  that  is  easily  arranged.  How  much  can  you  read 
at  present?" 

"Nothink,  miss."  The  plain  and  awful  truth  slipped  out 
before  he  knew  it  had. 

Miss  Foldal  did  not  flicker  an  eyelash.  She  merely  said, 
"I'll  go  and  see  if  I  can  find  Butter's  spelling-book.  I  ought 
to  have  it  somewhere." 

She  went  at  once  in  search  of  it,  and  five  minutes  later 
returned  in  triumph. 

162 


THE  SAILOR 

"Do  you  mind  not  sayin'  anythink  about  it  to  Ginger 
Jukes,  miss?"  the  young  man  besought  her. 

"If  it  is  your  wish,"  said  Miss  Foldal,  "I  certainly  wiH 
not." 

Here  was  the  beginning  of  wisdom  for  Henry  Harper. 
The  prophetic  words  of  Klondyke  came  back  to  him.  From 
the  very  first  lesson,  which  he  took  that  evening  after  tea 
before  the  return  of  G'iger  from  the  Crown  and  Cushion, 
it  seemed  that  reading  and  writing  was  the  Sailor's  true  line 
of  country.  A  whole  new  world  was  spread  suddenly  be- 
fore him. 

Mr.  Harper  was  an  amazingly  diligent  pupil.  He  took 
enormous  pains.  Whenever  Ginger  was  not  about,  he  was 
consolidating  the  knowledge  he  had  gained,  and  slowly  and 
painfully  acquiring  more.  At  Miss  Foldal's  suggestion,  he 
provided  himself  with  a  slate  and  pencil.  This  enabled 
him  to  tackle  a  very  intricate  business  in  quite  a  professional 
manner. 

It  was  uphill  work  making  pothooks  and  hangers,  having 
to  write  rows  of  a-b,  ab,  and  having  to  make  sure  of  his 
alphabet  by  writing  it  out  from  memory.  But  he  did  not 
weaken  in  his  task.  Sometimes  he  rose  early  to  write,  some- 
times he  sat  up  late  to  read;  every  day  he  received  instruc- 
tion of  priceless  value.  And  never  once  did  his  preceptress 
give  herself  airs,  or  sneer  at  his  ignorance;  above  all,  she 
did  not  give  him  away  to  Ginger. 

These  were  great  days.  The  beginning  of  real,  definite 
knowledge  gave  Henry  Harper  a  new  power  of  soul.  C-a-t 
spelled  cat,  d-o-g  spelled  dog;  nine  went  five  times  into 
forty-five.  There  was  no  limit  to  these  jewels  of  informa- 
tion. If  he  continued  to  work  in  this  way,  he  might  hope 
to  read  the  Evening  Star  by  the  end  of  March. 

In  the  meantime,  while  all  these  immense  yet  secret 
labors  were  going  forward,  he  felt  his  position  with  Ginger 
163 


THE  SAILOR 

was  in  jeopardy.  Somehow  as  the  weeks  passed  with  the 
Sailor  still  in  the  second  team,  they  did  not  seem  to  be  on 
quite  the  terms  that  they  had  been.  The  change  was  so 
slight  as  to  be  hardly  perceptible,  yet  it  hurt  the  Sailor, 
who  had  a  great  capacity  for  friendship  and  also  for  hero 
worship.  Ginger,  to  whom  his  present  fabulous  prosperity 
was  due,  must  always  be  one  of  the  gods  of  his  idolatry. 

The  truth  was,  Ginger  was  one  of  those  who  rise  to  the 
top  wherever  they  are,  while  Henry  Harper  lacked  this 
quality.  Ginger,  although  only  in  the  second  team  at  pres- 
ent, always  talked  and  behaved  as  if  he  was  a  member  of 
the  first.  There  could  be  no  doubt  his  honorable  friendship 
with  Dinkie  Dawson — one  of  England's  best,  as  the  Eve- 
ning Star  often  referred  to  him — was  the  foundation  upon 
which  he  sedulously  raised  his  social  eminence. 

In  fact,  Ginger  seldom  moved  out  of  the  company  of  the 
first  team.  He  played  billiards  with  its  members  at  the 
Crown  and  Cushion;  he  played  whist  and  cribbage  with 
them  at  the  same  resort  of  fashion;  they  almost  regarded 
him  as  one  of  themselves,  although  he  had  yet  to  win  his 
spurs;  moreover,  and  this  was  the  oddest  part  of  the  whole 
matter,  even  the  committee  had  come  to  look  upon  him 
favorably. 

The  Sailor  was  a  little  wounded  now  and  then  by 
Ginger's  persiflage.  Sometimes  he  held  him  up  to  ridicule 
in  a  way  that  hurt.  He  made  no  secret,  besides,  of  his 
growing  belief  that  there  was  not  very  much  to  the  Sailor 
after  all,  that  he  was  letting  the  grass  grow  under  his  feet, 
and  that  he  was  good  for  very  little  beyond  getting  down 
to  a  hot  one.  No  doubt,  the  root  of  the  trouble  lay  in  the 
fact  that  during  the  first  months  of  his  service  with  the 
Rovers,  the  Sailor  was  less  interested  in  football  and  the 
things  that  went  with  football  than  he  ought  to  have  been. 
He  was  secretly  giving  his  nights  and  days  to  a  matter 
164 


THE  SAILOR 

which  seemed  of  even  greater  importance  than  his  bread 
and  butter.  This  might  easily  have  led  to  disaster  had  it 
not  been  for  a  saving  clause  ever  present  in  the  mind  of 
Henry  Harper. 

His  dream,  as  a  shoeless  and  stockingless  newsboy,  mis- 
erably hawking  his  Result  Edition  through  the  mud  of 
Blackhampton,  had  been  that  one  day  he  would  help  the 
Rovers  bring  the  Cup  to  his  native  city.  This  thought  had 
sustained  him  in  many  a  desperate  hour.  Well,  Henry 
Harper  was  something  of  a  fatalist  now.  He  had  come 
very  much  nearer  the  realization  of  that  dream  than  had 
ever  seemed  possible.  Therefore,  he  was  not  going  to  let 
go  of  it.  His  mind  was  now  full  of  other  matters,  but 
he  must  not  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  it  was  his  bounden 
duty  to  make  his  dream  come  true. 

To  begin  with  he  had  to  find  his  way  into  the  first  eleven. 
But  the  weeks  went  by.  January  came,  and  with  it  the 
first  of  the  cup  ties,  but  Henry  Harper  was  still  in  the  sec- 
ond team  and  likely  to  remain  there.  It  was  not  that  he 
did  not  continue  to  show  promise.  But  something  more 
than  promise  was  needed  for  these  gladiatorial  contests  when 
twenty,  thirty,  forty,  fifty  thousand  persons  assembled  to 
cheer  their  favorites,  whose  names  were  in  their  mouths 
as  household  words.  His  time  might  one  day  come,  if  he 
kept  on  improving.  But  it  would  not  be  that  year.  As 
Ginger  said,  before  he  could  play  in  a  cup  tie  he  would 
have  to  get  a  bit  more  pudding  under  his  shirt. 

During  these  critical  months  Henry  Harper  was  getting 
other  things  to  sustain  him.  Every  week  marked  a  definite 
advance  in  knowledge.  Miss  Foldal  found  him  other  books, 
and  one  evening  at  the  beginning  of  March,  he  astonished 
her  not  merely  by  spelling  crocodile,  but  by  writing  it  down 
on  his  slate. 

April  came,  and  with  it  the  end  of  the  football  season. 
165 


THE  SAILOR 

Then  arose  a  problem  the  Sailor  had  not  foreseen.  Would 
the  Rovers  take  him  on  for  another  year?  He  was  still 
untried  in  the  great  matches,  he  was  still  merely  a  youth 
of  promise.  Would  he  be  re-engaged?  It  was  a  question 
for  Ginger  also.  But  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  matter 
did  not  long  remain  in  doubt.  One  evening  in  the  middle 
of  that  fateful  month,  he  came  in  to  supper  after  his  usual 
"hundred  up"  at  the  Crown  and  Cushion. 

"Well,  Sailor,"  he  said,  a  note  of  patronage  in  his  tone. 
"I've  fixed  it  with  the  kermittee.  They  are  going  to  take 
me  on  for  next  year." 

Sailor  was  not  surprised.  His  faith  in  Ginger  never 
wavered. 

"Wish  I  could  say  the  same  for  you,  Sailor,"  said  Ginger, 
condescendingly;  "but  the  kermittee  think  you  are  not  quite 
class." 

"They  are  not  goin'  to  take  me  on  again!"  said  the  Sailor 
in  a  hollow  voice. 

"No.  They  think  you  are  not  quite  Rovers'  form.  They 
are  goin'  to  give  you  back  your  papers." 

Such  a  decree  was  like  cold  steel  striking  at  the  Sailor's 
heart.  The  dream  of  his  boyhood  lay  shattered.  And  there 
were  other  consequences  which  just  then  he  could  not 
muster  the  power  of  mind  to  face. 


XVI 

THOSE  were  dark  hours  for   Henry  Harper.      Not 
only  must  he  yield  great  hopes,  he  must  also  give  up 
a  princely  mode  of  life.     Here  was  a  disaster  which 
must   surely  make   an   end   of   desires   that  had   begun   to 
dominate  him  like  a  passion. 

In  this  time  of  crisis  Ginger  showed  his  faith.     He  was 
1 66 


THE  SAILOR 

not  a  young  man  of  emotional  ardor,  but  the  Sailor  was  a 
chap  you  couldn't  help  liking,  and  in  his  heart  Ginger  be- 
lieved in  him;  therefore  all  the  influence  he  could  muster 
he  brought  to  bear  on  those  in  high  places. 

This  could  not  be  done  directly.  Ginger  was  still  in  the 
second  team  himself,  but  his  social  qualities  had  given 
him  a  footing  with  the  first.  Among  these,  with  the  re- 
doubtable Dinkie  Dawson  for  his  prop  and  stay,  he  let  it 
be  widely  circulated  that  it  would  be  an  act  of  folly  for 
the  Rovers  to  turn  down  the  Sailor  without  giving  him  a 
fair  trial,  because  sooner  or  later  he  was  bound  to  make 
good. 

This  view  became  so  fashionable  in  the  billiards'  saloon 
at  the  Crown  and  Cushion  that  it  came  to  the  ears  of  its 
proprietor,  who  was  no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Augustus 
Higginbottom.  Therefore  one  evening  Ginger  was  able  to 
hearten  the  Sailor  in  the  depths  of  his  despair. 

"They  are  goin'  to  give  you  a  trial  with  the  first  on 
Saturday,  young  feller.  And  just  remember  all  depends 
on  it.  If  you  do  well,  you'll  stay;  if  you  don't,  you'll  have 
to  pack  your  bag." 

It  was  not  very  comforting  for  one  so  highly  strung  as 
the  Sailor.  But  Ginger  meant  well;  also  he  had  done  well; 
it  was  entirely  due  to  him  that  the  Sailor  was  to  have  his 
chance.  And  that  chance  would  never  have  been  his  if 
Ginger's  astuteness  had  not  been  very  considerable. 

Saturday  came,  and  Henry  Harper  found  himself  in 
action  with  the  first  team  at  last.  It  was  the  end  of  the 
season  and  little  importance  was  attached  to  the  match,  but 
the  Sailor,  as  he  took  his  place  nervously  in  the  goal,  well 
icnew  that  this  game  was  to  make  or  mar  him.  All  was  at 
stake.  He  had  felt  as  he  lay  sleepless  throughout  the  pre- 
vious night  that  the  issue  would  try  him  too  highly.  It  was 
the  penalty  of  imagination  to  be  slain  in  battle  before  the 
167 


THE  SAILOR 

battle  came.  But  when  the  hour  arrived  and  he  stood  in 
the  goal,  he  was  able  after  all  to  do  his  bit  like  a  work- 
man. 

In  his  own  way  he  was  a  fighter.  And  genius  for  goal- 
keeping  stood  to  him,  as  Ginger  had  been  confident  it  would. 
In  the  first  minute  of  the  game  he  gathered  a  hot  one 
cleverly,  got  rid  of  it  before  the  enemy  could  down  him, 
and  from  that  moment  he  had  no  further  dread  of  losing  his 
nerve. 

"What  did  I  tell  yer,  Dink?"  said  Ginger  with  an  air 
of  restrained  triumph.  "That  young  feller  plays  for  Eng- 
land one  o'  these  fine  afternoons." 

This  was  a  bold  statement,  yet  not  unsanctioned  in  high 
places.  That  evening  the  Sailor  was  summoned  to  the 
Presence,  and  was  offered  a  contract  for  another  season 
with  a  promised  rise  if  he  continued  to  do  well. 

The  months  which  followed  meant  much  to  Henry 
Harper.  In  many  respects  they  were  the  best  of  his  life.  It 
was  a  time  of  dawning  hope,  of  coming  enlargement,  of 
slow-burgeoning  wisdom.  During  those  golden  summer 
mornings  in  which  he  wandered  in  the  more  or  less  vernal 
meadows  engirdling  the  city,  latent,  unsuspected  forces 
began  to  awake.  Knowledge,  knowledge,  knowledge,  he 
craved  continually.  Every  fresh  victory  won  in  an  enchanted 
field  was  a  lighted  torch  in  the  Sailor's  soul. 

He  knew  that  the  playing  of  football  was  but  a  means 
to  an  end.  It  gave  him  leisure,  opportunity,  wherewithal 
for  things  infinitely  more  important.  During  those  months 
of  his  awakening,  his  desire  became  a  passion.  There  were 
whole  vast  continents  in  the  mind  of  man,  that  he  could 
never  hope  to  traverse.  There  was  no  limit  to  the  vista 
opened  up  by  those  supreme  arts  of  man's  invention,  the  twin 
and  cognate  arts  of  reading  and  writing. 

Knowledge  is  power.  That  statement  had  been  made 
168 


THE  SAILOR 

quite  recently  by  his  already  well-beloved  Blackhampton 
Evening  Star.  With  his  own  eyes  he  had  been  able  to  read 
that  declaration.  Its  truth  had  thrilled  him. 

He  was  making  such  progress  now  that  he  could  read 
the  newspaper  almost  as  well  as  Ginger  himself.  He  no 
longer  dreaded  the  unmasking  of  his  guilty  secret  because 
he  no  longer  had  one  to  unmask.  Of  course  he  had  not 
Ginger's  ease  and  facility;  to  tackle  a  leading  article  was  a 
task  of  Hercules,  but  give  him  time  and  Marlow's  Diction- 
ary— Miss  Foldal  had  marked  his  diligence  by  the  gift  of 
her  own  private  copy — and  he  need  not  fear  any  foe  in 
black  and  white. 

September  came,  and  with  it  football  again.  And  from 
the  first  match  it  was  seen  that  Sailor  Harper,  which  was 
the  name  the  whole  town  called  him  now,  had  taken  a  long 
stride  to  the  front.  By  the  end  of  that  month  his  place  in 
the  first  team  was  secure,  and  his  fame  was  in  the  mouth 
of  everybody. 

For  many  years,  in  Mr.  Augustus  Higginbottom's  judg- 
ment— and  there  COM..J.  be  none  higher — the  one  need  of 
the  Blackhampton  Rovers  had  been  a  goalkeeper  of  Class. 
They  had  one  now.  The  Sailor  was  performing  miracles 
in  every  match,  and  Ginger,  his  mentor,  was  going  about 
with  a  permanent  expression  of,  "What  did  I  tell  yer?" 
upon  a  preternaturally  sharp  and  freckled  countenance. 

Ginger  did  not  allow  the  grass  to  grow  under  his  own 
feet  either.  He  was  now  installed  as  billiards  marker  and 
general  factotum  at  the  Crown  and  Cushion;  in  fact  he 
had  already  come  to  occupy  quite  a  place  at  court.  But 
even  this  was  not  the  limit  of  that  vaulting  ambition,  which 
was  twofold:  (i)  to  be  the  official  right  full  back  of  the 
Blackhampton  Rovers;  (2)  the  acquisition  of  a  tobacconist's 
shop  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Crown  and  Cushion.  But  the 
latter  scheme  belonged,  of  course,  to  the  distant  future. 
169 


THE  SAILOR 

Ginger  was  far-sighted,  such  had  always  been  Dinkie 
Dawson's  opinion,  and  Dinkie  did  not  speak  unless  he  knew. 
Therefore  little  surprise  was  caused  by  a  startling  rumor 
at  the  beginning  of  November  of  Ginger's  engagement  to 
Miss  Maria  Higginbottom.  And  it  was  coincident  with 
Ginger's  "making  good"  with  the  Rovers'  first  team. 

It  was  said  that  the  engagement  had  not  the  sanction 
of  the  chairman  of  the  club.  Nevertheless  Ginger  kept  his 
place  as  general  factotum  at  the  Crown  and  Cushion; 
moreover,  as  understudy  to  Joe  Pretyman  who  had  been 
smitten  with  water  on  the  knee,  he  stepped  into  the  breach 
with  such  gallantry  that  the  first  part  of  his  ambition  was 
soon  assured.  By  sheer  fighting  power,  by  his  sovereign 
faculty  of  never  knowing  when  he  was  beaten,  Ginger  in 
the  first  week  of  December  was  in  a  position  that  nature 
could  hardly  have  meant  him  to  grace. 

"Blame  my  cats,"  said  Mr.  Augustus  Higginbottom, 
\vhose  thoughts  were  a  little  rueful.  "That  Ginger's  mus- 
tard. He,  plays  better  an'  better  in  every  match." 

"Yes,  Gus,  he  does,"  said  Mr.  S^fllite  Albert. 

On  the  evening  of  that  proud  day,  Ginger  obtained  a  rise 
in  his  salary.  According  to  rumor,  no  sooner  had  it  been 
granted  than  he  urged  Miss  Maria  Higginbottom  to  fix  a 
date.  It  was  said  that,  in  spite  of  Ginger's  recent  triumphs, 
the  lady  declined  the  offer.  Even  money  was  freely  laid, 
however,  that  within  a  twelvemonth  Ginger  would  lead 
her  to  the  altar. 

During  that  glorious  December,  the  Rovers  won  every 
match.  While  the  Sailor  continued  to  be  a  wonder  among 
goalkeepers,  Ginger  quietly  took  his  place  as  the  authentic 
successor  to  the  famous  Joe  Pretyman.  Indeed,  things  were 
carried  to  such  a  perilous  height  of  enthusiasm  in  the  town 
of  Blackhampton  that  two  coming  events  were  treated  as 
accomplished  facts:  the  Rovers  would  win  the  Cup  and  the 
170 


THE  SAILOR 

Sailor  would  be  chosen  for  England  in  the  match  against 
Scotland. 

These  were  dream  days  for  Henry  Harper.  He  was  per- 
forming miracles,  yet  compared  with  going  aloft  in  a 
gale  in  latitude  fifty  degrees  everything  seemed  absurdly 
simple.  He  had  merely  to  stand  on  dry  land,  or  on  land 
dry  more  or  less,  since  the  ground  of  the  Rovers  was  not  so 
well  drained  as  it  might  have  been,  in  thick  boots  and  a 
warm  sweater,  catching  a  football  which  was  so  much  easier 
to  seize  than  a  ratline,  and  evading  the  oncoming  forwards 
of  the  enemy  who  were  not  allowed  to  use  their  hands,  let 
alone  their  knives.  It  was  as  easy  as  tumbling  off  a  yard. 
But  there  was  just  one  drawback  to  it,  which  he  did  not 
think  of  mentioning  to  anyone,  not  even  to  Miss  Foldal. 
Every  match  in  which  he  played  seemed  to  increase  a  feeling 
of  excitement  he  was  never  without. 

This  was  queer.  There  was  really  so  little  to  excite  one 
who  had  been  six  years  before  the  mast.  At  first  he  was 
inclined  to  believe  it  must  be  the  presence  of  the  crowd. 
But  he  ought  to  have  got  over  that.  Besides,  it  was  not  the 
crowd  which  caused  the  almost  terrible  feeling  of  tension 
that  always  came  upon  him  now  the  night  before  a  match. 

After  a  great  game  on  Christmas  Eve,  he  was  raised 
shoulder  high  by  a  body  of  admirers  and  carried  off  the 
field.  The  committee  of  the  club  marked  his  achievements 
by  a  substantial  rise  of  wages  and  by  obtaining  his  signature 
to  a  contract  for  the  following  year.  Ginger  also,  who  had 
perfofmed  wonderful  deeds,  was  honored  in  a  manner 
equally  practical.  That  Christmas  both  were  on  the  crest 
of  the  wave.  But  the  highest  pinnacle  was  reserved  for 
the  Sailor.  It  was  not  merely  that  he  was  tall  and  straight 
and  strong  as  steel,  that  he  could  spring  like  a  cat  from 
one  side  of  the  goal  to  the  other,  or  hang  like  a  monkey 
from  the  crossbar,  or  fling  his  lithe  body  at  the  ball  with 
13  171 


THE  SAILOR 

calculated  daring;  it  was  perhaps  his  modesty  which  took 
the  public  captive. 

It  may  have  been  this  or  it  may  not;  there  is  so  little  of 
the  corporate  mind  of  man  that  can  be  reduced  to  set  terms. 
Ginger's  most  partial  worshiper  would  have  had  to  look 
a  long  while  to  find  modesty  in  the  bearing  of  that  hero, 
yet  he  was  very  popular  also.  Nothing  succeeds  like  suc- 
cess, was  an  apothegm  of  the  Blackhampton  Evening  Star. 
The  Sailor  knew  that  now  from  experience,  but  he  was 
presently  to  know,  as  he  had  known  before,  that  nothing 
fails  like  failure,  at  least  in  the  minds  of  many  for  whom 
the  Blackhampton  Evening  Star  was  the  last  word  of  wisdom. 


XVII 

SAILOR    BOY,"    said    Ginger,    on    Christmas   night, 
"what  are  you  readin'  now?" 
"  'Pickwick    Papers,' "    said    the    Sailor,    trying   to 
speak  as  if  this  was  nothing  out  of  the  common. 
"Potery?" 

"It's  by  Charles  Dickens,"  said  the  Sailor,  with  a  thril! 
of  triumph  which  he  was  quite  unable  to  keep  out  of  his 
voice. 

When  Ginger  was  out  of  his  depth,  which  was  not  very 
often,  he  always  took  care  not  to  give  himself  away.  The 
only  Charles  Dickens  with  whom  he  was  acquainted  was 
doing  great  things  just  now  at  center  half  back  for  Ducking- 
field  Britannia.  But  with  all  respect  to  Chas.,  Ginger  did 
not  believe  that  he  was  the  author  of  the  "Pickwick  Papers." 
Therefore  he  made  no  comment.  But  silence  did  not 
debar  him  from  the  process  of  thought. 

"Sailor  boy,"  he  said  at  last,  "if  you  take  the  advice  o* 
your  father,  you'll  not  go  over-reading  yerself.    Them  deep 
172 


THE  SAILOR 

books  what  you  get  out  o'  the  Free  Libry  is  dangerous, 
that's  my  experience.  Too  much  truck  with  'em  turns  a 
chap's  brain.  Besides,  they  mean  nothing  when  you've 
done." 

The  Sailor  was  less  impressed  than  usual.  But  Ginger 
was  very  clear  upon  the  point. 

"I  once  knowed  a  chap  as  over-read  hisself  into  quod. 
He  was  as  sound  a  young  feller  as  you  could  find  in  a 
month  o'  Sundays,  but  he  took  to  goin'  to  the  Free  Libry  to 
read  Socialism,  and  that  done  him  in.  He  come  to  think  all 
men  was  equal  and  Mine  is  Thine,  and  that  sort  o'  tommy, 
an'  it  took  a  pleadin'  old  Beak  to  set  him  right  in  the  mat- 
ter; at  least  he  give  him  six  months  without  the  option, 
and  even  that  didn't  convince  the  youth.  Some  chaps  take 
a  deal  o'  convincin'.  But  the  Free  Libry  was  that  chap's 
ruin,  there's  no  doubt  about  it." 

Ginger  urged  this  view  with  a  conviction  that  rather 
alarmed  the  Sailor.  "Pickwick  Papers,"  although  very 
difficult  and  advanced  reading,  seemed  harmless  enough, 
but  Ginger  had  such  a  developed  mind,  he  appeared  to  know 
so  much  about  everything,  that  the  Sailor  felt  it  would  be 
the  part  of  wisdom  to  consult  Miss  Foldal. 

It  had  been  her  idea  that  he  should  join  the  Free  Library. 
He  had  promptly  done  so,  and  from  the  perfectly  amazing 
wealth  of  the  world's  literature  garnered  there  had  led  off 
with  the  "Pickwick  Papers,"  which  he  had  heard  was,  next 
to  the  Bible  and  "Barriers  Burned  Away,"  the  greatest  book 
in  the  English  language.  His  instinct  pointed  to  "Barriers 
Burned  Away" — he  had  read  little  bits  of  the  Bible  already, 
of  which  Miss  Foldal  had  a  private  copy — but  he  felt  that 
"Pickwick  Papers"  was  the  less  difficult  work  of  the  two. 
For  the  present,  therefore,  he  must  be  content  with  that 
famous  book. 

Miss  Foldal  reassured  him  wonderfully.  She  was  con- 
173 


THE  SAILOR 

vinced  that  Mr.  Jukes  took  an  extreme  view.  She  had 
never  read  any  of  the  works  of  Dickens  herself,  she  simply 
couldn't  abide  him,  he  was  too  descriptive  for  her,  but  she 
was  sure  there  was  no  harm  in  him,  although  she  had  heard 
that  with  Thackeray  it  was  different.  Not  that  she  had  read 
Thackeray  either,  as  she  understood  that  no  unmarried  lady 
under  forty  could  read  Thackeray  and  remain  respectable. 

The  Sailor  was  strengthened  by  Miss  Foldal's  view  of 
Dickens,  but  her  reference  to  the  rival  and  antithesis  of  that 
blameless  author  was  in  a  sense  unfortunate.  Mr.  Harper 
wanted  to  take  back  "Pickwick  Papers"  at  once;  he  had 
had  it  three  weeks  and  had  only  just  reached  Chapter  Nine; 
he  would  exchange  it  for  the  more  lurid  and  worldly  works 
of  the  licentious  Thackeray.  But  Miss  Foldal  dissuaded 
him.  For  one  thing,  she  had  the  reputation  of  her  house- 
hold to  consider.  She  had  once  had  an  aunt,  an  old  lady 
very  widely  read  and  of  great  literary  taste,  who  always 
maintained  that  the  "Vanity  Fair"  of  Thackeray  ought  to 
have  been  burned  by  the  common  hangman,  and  that  noth- 
ing but  good  would  have  been  done  to  the  community  if 
the  author  had  been  burned  along  with  it.  Miss  Foldal 
allowed  that  her  aunt  had  been  an  old  lady  of  strong  views; 
all  the  same,  she  was  of  opinion  that  Thorough  must  be  Mr. 
Harper's  motto.  He  had  begun  "Pickwick  Papers,"  and 
although  she  allowed  it  was  dry,  he  must  read  every  word 
for  the  purpose  of  forming  his  character,  before  he  even  so 
much  as  thought  about  Thackeray. 

"Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day,"  said  Miss  Foldal.  "Those 
who  pursued  knowledge  must  not  attempt  to  run  before 
they  could  walk.  Thackeray  was  so  much  more  advanced 
than  Dickens  that  to  read  the  one  before  the  other  was  like 
going  to  a  Robertson  comedy  or  Shakespeare  before  you 
had  seen  a  pantomime  or  the  Moore  and  Burgess  Min- 
strels." 

174 


THE  SAILOR 

The  ethics  of  Miss  Foldal  were  a  little  too  much  for  the 
Sailor.  But  one  fact  was  clear.  For  once  Ginger  was 
wrong:  no  possible  harm  could  come  of  reading  Charles 
Dickens. 

Thus  Henry  Harper  was  able  to  continue  his  studies  in 
ease  of  mind.  And  at  the  beck  of  ambition  one  thing  led 
to  another  in  the  most  surprising  way.  His  appetite  for 
knowledge  grew  on  what  it  fed.  Reading  was  only  one 
branch;  there  was  the  writing,  also  the  ciphering.  The 
latter  art  was  not  really  essential.  It  was  rather  a  side- 
dish,  and  hors-d'oeuvre — Miss  Foldal's  private  word — but 
it  was  also  very  useful,  and  in  a  manner  of  speaking  you 
could  not  lay  claim  to  the  education  of  a  gentleman  with- 
out it. 

The  Sailor  did  not  at  present  aspire  to  a  liberal  educa- 
tion, but  he  remembered  that  Klondyke  had  always  set  great 
store  by  ciphering  and  had  taught  him  to  count  up  to  a 
hundred.  It  was  due  perhaps  to  that  immortal  memory 
rather  than  to  Miss  Foldal's  somewhat  fanciful  and  ro- 
mantic attitude  towards  the  supremely  difficult  science  of 
numbers  that  Henry  Harper  persevered  with  the  multipli- 
cation table.  At  first,  however,  the  difficulties  were  great. 
But  his  grit  was  wonderful.  Early  in  the  winter  morn- 
ings, while  Ginger  was  still  abed,  and  Miss  Foldal  also, 
he  would  come  downstairs,  light  the  gas  in  the  sitting- 
room,  put  on  his  overcoat  and  sit  down  to  three  hours'  solid 
study  of  writing  and  arithmetic.  Moreover,  he  burned  the 
midnight  oil.  Sometimes  with  the  aid  of  Marlow's  Dic- 
tionary, he  read  the  "Pickwick  Papers"  far  into  the  night, 
with  a  little  of  the  Bible  for  a  change,  or  the  Blackhamp- 
ton  Evening  Star.  And  if  he  had  not  to  be  on  duty  with 
the  club,  he  would  spend  all  his  time  in  these  exacting 
occupations. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Blackhampton  Rovers  were  making 
175 


THE  SAILOR 

history.  They  were  an  old  established  club;  for  many  years 
they  had  had  one  of  the  best  teams  in  the  country,  and 
although  on  two  occasions  they  had  been  in  the  semi-final 
round  for  the  Cup,  they  had  never  got  beyond  that  critical 
stage;  therefore  the  long  coveted  trophy  had  not  yet  been 
seen  in  the  city  of  Blackhampton. 

However,  the  Cup  was  coming  to  Blackhampton  this 
year,  said  the  experts  in  football  with  whom  the  town  was 
filled.  The  Rovers  had  not  lost  a  match  since  September 
12.  They  had  won  three  cup  ties  already,  beating  on  each 
occasion  a  redoubtable  foe,  of  whom  one  was  that  ancient 
and  honorable  enemy,  the  Villa.  One  more  victory  and 
the  Rovers  would  be  in  the  semi-final  again. 

As  far  as  local  knowledge  could  discern  there  was  none 
to  thwart  the  Rovers  now.  In  the  words  of  Mr.  Augustus 
Higginbottom,  every  man  was  a  trier,  the  whole  team  was 
the  goods.  They  had  the  best  goalkeeper  in  England,  and 
Ginger,  in  whom  he  had  never  really  believed,  had  turned 
out  mustard.  The  proprietor  of  the  Crown  and  Cushion, 
with  that  largeness  of  mind  which  is  not  afraid  to  change 
its  opinions,  expressed  himself  thus  a  few  minutes  before 
closing  time  in  the  private  bar  when  he  took  "a  drop  r,f 
summat"  to  stimulate  the  parts  of  speech  and  the  powers  of 
reason. 

The  Rovers  could  not  fail  to  win  the  Cup.  According  to 
rumor,  after  the  triumph  over  the  Villa,  they  were  freely 
backed.  This  may  have  been  the  case  or  it  may  not.  But 
no  body  of  sportsmen  could  have  been  more  confident  than 
the  thirty  thousand  odd  who  paid  their  shillings  and  their 
sixpences  with  heroic  regularity,  who  followed  the  fortunes 
of  the  Rovers  in  victory  or  defeat. 

For  this  noble  body  of  partisans  there  was  one  authentic 
hero  now.  Dinkie  Dawson  was  class,  Erb  Mullins  was  a 
good  un,  Mac  was  as  good  a  one  as  ever  came  over  the 
176 


THE  SAILOR 

Border,  Ginger  was  a  terror  for  his  size  and  never  knew 
v.  hen  he  was  beat,  but  it  was  the  Sailor  in  goal  who  caught 
and  held  every  eye.  There  was  magic  in  all  the  Sailor 
did  and  the  way  he  did  it,  which  belonged  to  no  one  else, 
which  was  his  own  inimitable  gift. 

Sailor  Harper  was  the  idol  of  the  town.  He  might  have 
married  almost  any  girl  in  it.  People  turned  round  to  look 
at  him  as  he  walked  over  the  canal  bridge  towards  the 
market  place.  Even  old  ladies  of  the  most  fearless  and 
terrific  virtue  seemed  involuntarily  to  give  the  glad  eye  to 
the  fine-looking  lad  "with  all  the  oceans  of  the  world  in 
his  face,"  as  a  local  poet  said  in  the  Evening  Star,  when  he 
got  into  a  tram  or  a  bus.  If  the  Sailor  had  not  been  the 
soul  of  modesty,  he  would  have  been  completely  spoiled 
by  the  public  homage  during  these  crowded  and  glorious 
weeks. 

It  was  a  rare  time  for  Blackhampton,  a  rare  time  for 
the  Rovers,  a  rare  time  for  Henry  Harper.  The  very  air 
of  the  smoke-laden  and  unlovely  town  seemed  vibrant  with 
emotion.  A  surge  of  romance  had  entered  his  heart.  The 
wild  dream  of  his  newsboy  days  was  coming  true.  He  was 
going  to  help  the  Rovers  bring  the  Cup  to  his  native  city. 

Such  a  thought  made  even  the  "Pickwick  Papers,"  now 
Chapter  Twenty-three,  seem  uninspired.  He  had  not  ven- 
tured on  Shakespeare;  he  was  not  ripe  for  it  yet,  said  Miss 
Foldal.  Shakespeare  was  poetry,  and  the  crown  of  all  wis- 
dom, the  greatest  man  that  ever  lived  with  one  exception, 
but  the  time  would  come  even  for  the  Bard  of  Avon.  On 
the  night  the  Rovers  brought  home  the  Cup,  Miss  Foldal 
volunteered  a  promise  to  read  aloud  "Romeo  and  Juliet," 
the  finest  play  ever  written  by  Shakespeare,  in  which  she 
herself  had  once  appeared  at  the  Blackhampton  Lyceum, 
although  that  was  a  long  time  ago. 

However,  there  the  promise  was.  But  when  it  came 
J77 


THE  SAILOR 

to  the  ears  of  Ginger  he  expressed  himself  as  thoroughly 
disgusted. 

"Keep  your  eyeballs  skinned,  young  feller,"  said  that 
misogynist.  "That's  the  advice  of  your  father.  She's 
after  your  four  pound  a  week.  Take  care  you  are  not 
nabbed.  You  ain't  safe  with  old  Tidde-fol-lol  these  days, 
you  ain't  reelly." 

The  Sailor  was  hurt  by  such  reflections  on  one  to  whom 
he  owed  much.  It  is  true  that  a  recent  episode  after  supper 
in  the  passage  had  rather  disconcerted  him,  but  it  would  be 
easy  to  make  too  much  of  it,  as  he  was  never  quite  sure 
whether  Miss  Foldal  did  or  did  not  intend  to  kiss  him,  even 
if  she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck.  Also  he  had  once  seen 
her  take  a  bottle  of  gin  to  her  bedroom,  but  he  was  mucK 
too  loyal  to  mention  to  Ginger  either  of  these  matters; 
and,  after  all,  what  were  these  things  in  comparison  with 
her  elegance  and  her  refinement,  her  knowledge  of  Shake- 
speare and  the  human  heart? 


XVIII 

GREAT  was  the  excitement   in  the  town  when  the 
Evening  Star  brought  out  a  special  edition  with 
the  news  that  the  Rovers  had   to  play  Ducking- 
field  Britannia  in  the  fourth  round  of  the  Cup. 

Duckingfield  was  the  center  of  a  mining  district  about 
fifteen  miles  away,  and  the  rivalry  between  the  Britannia 
and  the  Rovers  was  terrific.  In  the  mind  of  any  true  Black- 
bamptonian  there  was  never  any  question  as  to  their  re- 
spective merits.  The  Rovers  had  forgotten  more  about 
football  than  the  Britannia  would  ever  know.  One  was 
quite  an  upstart  club;  the  other,  as  all  the  world  knew, 
went  back  into  the  primal  dawn  of  football  history.  The 
178 


THE  SAILOR 

Rovers  practiced  the  science  and  culture  of  the  game;  the 
Britannia  relied  on  brute  force  and  adjectival  ignorance. 

Still,  Duckingfield  Britannia  were  doughty  foes,  and 
although  the  Rovers  had  no  need  to  fear  anyone,  the  feeling 
at  the  Crown  and  Cushion  was  that  they  rather  wished 
they  had  not  to  play  them.  The  truth  was,  in  their  battles 
with  these  upstarts,  the  Rovers  never  seemed  able  to  live  up 
to  their  reputation.  Whether  they  met  at  Duckingfield  or 
at  Blackhampton,  and  in  no  matter  what  circumstances,  the 
Rovers  invariably  got  the  worst  of  the  deal.  This  was  odd, 
because  the  Rovers  were  much  the  superior  team  in  every 
way,  always  had  been,  always  would  be.  They  didn't  know 
how  to  play  football  at  Duckingfield,  whereas  Blackhamp- 
ton was  the  home  of  the  game. 

Moreover,  there  was  one  historic  meeting  between  these 
neighbors  which  was  always  a  causa  foederis  at  any  gather- 
ing of  their  partisans.  It  was  a  certain  match  on  neutral 
ground  in  which  they  met  in  the  semi-final  for  the  Cup, 
when  to  the  utter  confusion  and  bewilderment  of  all  the 
best  judges,  the  Rovers,  who  in  their  own  opinion  had  really 
won  the  Cup  already,  were  beaten  four  goals  to  nothing. 
It  is  true  that  a  snowstorm  raged  throughout  the  match, 
and  to  this  fact  the  defeat  of  the  Rovers  was  always  ascribed 
by  the  lovers  of  pure  football.  It  could  never  be  accounted 
for  on  any  other  hypothesis.  No  comparison  of  the  real 
merits  of  the  teams  was  possible,  any  more  than  it  was  pos- 
sible to  compare  the  towns  whence  they  sprang.  You  could 
not  mention  a  town  like  Duckingfield  in  the  same  breath  as 
a  town  like  Blackhampton ;  to  speak  of  the  Britannia  being 
the  equal  of  the  Rovers  merely  betrayed  a  fundamental 
ignorance  of  what  you  were  talking  about. 

All  the  same  the  feeling  in  the  private  bar  of  the  Crown 
and  Cushion  on  the  night  of  the  announcement  that  the 
Rovers  and  the  Britannia  must  meet  once  more  in  a  cup  tie 
179 


THE  SAILOR 

was  one  of  anxiety.  It  had  long  been  felt  in  Blackhampton 
that  the  fates  never  played  quite  fairly  in  the  matter  of 
Duckingfield  Britannia.  No  reasonable  person  outside  the 
latter  miserable  place  ever  questioned  the  Rovers'  immense 
superiority,  but  there  was  no  glossing  over  the  fact  that  a 
clash  of  arms  with  these  rude  and  unpolished  foemen  ended 
invariably  in  darkness  and  eclipse.  "It's  what  I  always 
say,"  Mr.  August  Higginbottom  would  affirm  on  these 
tragic  occasions,  "they  don't  know  how  to  play  footba'  at 
Duckingfill.  Bull-fighting's  their  game.  Brute  force  and — 
hignorance,  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

For  ten  days  nothing  was  talked  of  in  Blackhampton  but 
the  coming  battle.  But  there  could  be  only  one  result. 
Britannia  was  bound  to  be  wiped  off  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Still,  the  whole  town  would  breathe  more  freely  on  Satur- 
day evening,  when  this  operation  had  been  performed  and 
the  Rovers  were  safely  in  the  semi-final  round. 

On  the  eve  of  the  match,  it  was  whispered  all  over  Black- 
hampton that  big  money  was  on.  The  confidence  of  the 
enemy  was  overweening,  ridiculous,  pathetic;  partisans  of 
the  Britannia  were  said  to  be  backing  their  favorites  for 
unheard-of  sums.  "Rovers  would  be  all  right  if  they  had  a 
front  parlor  to  play  in,"  was  a  favorite  axiom  of  these 
unpolished  foemen.  "Britannia  plays  footba'.  They  don't 
play  hunt-the-slipper  nor  kiss-in-the-ring." 

The  great  day  dawned.  A  chill  February  dawn  it  was. 
Queerly  excited  by  the  coming  match,  Henry  Harper  had 
hardly  closed  his  eyes  throughout  the  previous  night.  He 
knew  that  wonders  were  expected  of  him;  there  seemed  no 
reason,  under  Providence,  why  he  should  not  perform  them ; 
in  match  after  match,  he  had  gone  from  strength  to 
strength ;  yet  on  the  eve  he  hardly  slept. 

He  had  not  been  sleeping  for  some  little  time  now.  He 
had  paid  no  heed  to  the  warnings  of  Ginger,  who  was  quite 
1 80 


THE  SAILOR 

sure  "he  was  over-reading  hisself,"  but  he  didn't  believe  this 
was  the  case.  No  doubt  he  had  studied  hard ;  his  thirst  for 
knowledge  grew  in  spite  of  the  copious  draughts  with  which 
he  tried  to  quench  it.  Only  too  often  before  a  match,  he  felt 
nervous,  overstrung,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he  was 
on  the  verge  of  disaster. 

On  the  morning  of  a  never-to-be-forgotten  day,  the  Sailor 
rose  before  it  was  light  to  practice  writing  and  to  study 
arithmetic — he  was  as  far  as  vulgar  fractions  now.  He  sat 
in  an  overcoat  in  a  fireless  sitting-room  for  three  hours 
before  breakfast,  and  continued  his  labors  for  several  hours 
afterwards.  Then,  after  a  light  luncheon,  he  walked  with 
Ginger  to  the  ground. 

The  famous  field  of  the  Rovers  was  called  Gamble's 
Pleasance.  History  has  not  determined  the  source  of  its 
name.  Extrinsically  it  was  hard  to  justify.  Only  one  tree 
was  visible,  and  not  a  single  blade  of  grass.  It  was  sur- 
rounded on  four  sides  by  huge  roofed  structures  of  wood 
and  iron,  towering  tier  upon  tier;  it  had  capacity  for  fifty 
thousand  people.  When  Ginger  and  the  Sailor  came  on  the 
scene,  these  had  taken  up  their  places  already,  the  gates  had 
been  closed,  and  disappointed  enthusiasts  were  turning  away 
by  the  hundred.  There  was  not  room  in  Gamble's  Pleas- 
ance for  another  human  being. 

It  was  a  scene  truly  remarkable  that  met  the  eyes  of 
Ginger  and  the  Sailor.  Tier  upon  tier,  wall  upon  wall  of 
solid  humanity  rose  to  the  sky.  The  Blackhampton  Excel- 
sior Prize  Brass  Band  fought  nobly  but  in  vain  against  fifty 
thousanid  larynxes,  and  mounted  police  did  their  best  to 
prevent  their  owners  bursting  through  the  barriers  to  the 
field  of  play. 

The  majority  were  strong  partisans  of  the  Rovers  and 
wore  favors  of  chocolate  and  blue.  But  there  had  been  an 
invasion  of  the  Huns.  Barbarians  from  the  neighboring 
181 


THE  SAILOR 

town  of  Duckingfield  could  be  picked  out  at  a  glance.  One 
and  all  wore  aggressively  checked  cloth  caps,  on  which  a 
red-and-white  card  was  pinned  bearing  the  legend,  "Play 
up,  Britannia." 

The  supporters  of  that  upstart  club  were  massed  in  solid 
phalanxes  about  the  scene  of  action.  They  waved  red>and- 
white  banners,  they  shook  rattles,  they  discoursed  the  strains 
of  "Rule,  Britannia"  on  trumpets  and  mouth-organs,  they 
let  off  fireworks,  and  far  worse  than  all  this,  they  indulged 
in  ribald  criticism  of  their  distinguished  opponents'  style  of 
play.  "They  were  goin'  to  mop  the  floor  with  'em  as  usual." 
The  consequence  was  hand-to-hand  conflicts  became  general 
all  over  the  ground  between  the  dignified  supporters  of 
True  Football,  and  these  Visigoths  who  were  ignorant  of 
that  godlike  science.  These  encounters  pleasantly  assirted 
the  efforts  of  the  mounted  police  and  the  Blackhampton 
Excelsior  Prize  Brass  Band  to  beguile  the  fleeting  minutes 
until  the  combatants  appeared  on  the  field  of  honor. 

"Yer  talk  about  yer  Sailor,"  said  a  red-and-white-rosetted 
warrior  with  a  rattle  in  one  hand  and  a  bottle  of  beer  in  the 
other.  "We'll  give  him  Sailor.  Rovers  can  swank,  but  they 
can't  play  footba'." 

"Villa  didn't  think  so,  anyway,"  said  another  sportsman, 
who  flaunted  a  chocolate-and-blue  rose  in  his  buttonhole 
without  intending  any  affront  to  horticulture. 

"Villa,"  said  the  Duckingfield  barbarian.  "Who's  Villa ! 
Play  oop,  Britann-yah!"  He  then  proceeded  to  render  the 
slogan  of  Britannia  on  the  mouth-organ,  until  some  seeth- 
ing superpatriot  hit  him  on  the  head  from  behind  with  a 
rattle. 

In  the  midst  of  the  "scrap"  that  followed  this  graceful 
rebuke,  which  two  unmounted  members  of  the  Blackhamp- 
ton Constabulary  regarded  from  a  strategic  distance  with  the 
utmost  detachment,  a  cry  of  "  'Ere  they  come!"  was  loosed 
182 


THE  SAILOR 

from  at  least  thirty-five  thousand  throats,  and  such  a  roar 
rent  the  heavens  as  must  have  disturbed  Zeus  considerably 
just  as  he  was  settling  down  for  the  afternoon. 

"Play  up,  Rovers!" 

Blackhampton  might  well  be  proud  of  the  eleven  wearers 
of  the  chocolate  and  blue.  A  finer-looking  set  of  warriors 
would  have  been  hard  to  find.  And  it  did  not  lessen  the 
pride  of  their  friends  that  among  the  eleven  only  the  goal- 
keeper could  claim  to  be  representing  the  place  of  his  birth. 

"Play  up,  Sailor!" 

The  slender,  handsome  boy,  looking  rather  fine-drawn, 
but  with  something  of  the  turn  of  limb  of  a  thoroughbred 
racehorse,  came  into  the  goal  and  was  duly  greeted  by  his 
admirers. 

"  'E  plays  for  England,"  proclaimed  one  of  these. 

"I  don't  think,"  said  a  Visigoth  with  a  mouth-organ. 

"Play  up,  Dink!" 

The  great  Dinkie,  side-stepping  with  the  loose-limbed 
elegance  of  a  ragtime  dancer,  looked  as  smart  as  paint. 

"There's  not  a  better  inside  left  playing  footba',"  said 
another  enthusiast,  looking  round  for  contradiction. 

"I  don't  think,"  said  a  Visigoth  with  a  rattle. 

"Play  up,  Ginger!" 

Ginger,  with  head  of  flame,  looking  more  bow-legged, 
prick-eared  and  pugnacious  than  ever,  was  a  veritable  pocket 
edition  of  the  "Fighting  Temeraire." 

"  'E's  a  daisy,  ain't  *e?"  said  the  enthusiast. 

"I  don't  think,"  quoth  the  Visigoth. 

Another  roar  was  loosed,  this  time  by  fifteen  thousand 
Duckingfield  larynxes. 

"  'Ere  they  are.  Play  oop,  Britann-yah.  Play  oop,  me 
little  lads." 

All  this  was  merely  the  prelude  to  such  a  game  as  never 
was  seen  on  Gamble's  Pleasance.  The  Rovers  were  on  the 
183 


THE  SAILOR 

crest  of  the  wave.  They  had  not  lost  a  match  since  Septem- 
ber 12,  and  this  day  was  Saturday,  February  20.  They 
were  proud  and  confident,  they  were  playing  on  their  own 
ground  in  the  presence  of  their  friends,  and  they  had  a  very 
long  score  to  settle  with  Duckingfield  Britannia. 

And  yet  deep  in  the  hearts  of  the  wearers  of  the  chocolate 
and  blue  was  the  sense  of  fate.  And  it  is  a  stronger  thing 
than  any  that  has  yet  existed  in  the  soul  of  man.  Fought 
they  never  so  fiercely,  under  no  matter  what  conditions, 
whenever  the  haughty  Rovers  met  these  unpolished  foemen 
they  had  invariably  to  bite  the  dust  or  the  mud,  as  the  case 
might  be. 

The  pace  was  a  corker  to  start  with.  It  was  as  if  twenty- 
two  parti-colored  tigers  had  been  suddenly  let  loose.  But 
it  was  not  football  that  was  played.  Britannia  was  not 
capable  of  expounding  the  noble  science  as  it  was  understood 
by  the  polished  and  urbane  Rovers  of  Blackhampton. 

"Goin'  to  be  a  dog-fight  as  usual,"  proclaimed  Mr. 
Augustus  Higginbottom,  who  was  seated  in  the  exact  center 
of  the  members'  stand. 

This  grim  remark  was  a  concession  to  the  fact  that  the 
Britannia  was  already  fiercely  attacking  the  Rovers'  goal, 
and  that  Ginger,  under  great  pressure,  had  been  compelled 
to  give  a  corner  kick. 

From  the  word  "go"  it  was  a  terrific  set-to.  Up  and 
down,  down  and  up,  ding  dong,  hammer  and  tongs,  east, 
west,  north  and  south  of  that  turfless,  sand-strewn  area 
surged  the  tide  of  battle.  Evesy  yard  of  ground  was  yielded 
at  the  point  of  death;  at  least  so  it  seemed  to  fifty  thousand 
spectators  and  six  mounted  constables  who  could  hardly 
breathe  for  excitement. 

"Durn  me,  if  that  Ginger  ain't  top  weight,"  hoarsely 
remarked  the  chairman  of  the  club  to  Mr.  Satellite  Albert. 

Ginger  had  just  laid  out  the  center  forward  of  the  enemy 
184 


THE  SAILOR 

when  a  goal  seemed  sure.  The  advantage  of  the  proceeding 
was  twofold.  In  the  first  place,  the  Rovers'  citadel  was  still 
uncaptured,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  thirty-five  thousand 
persons  had  as  good  as  yielded  it  to  the  enemy,  fifteen  thou- 
sand of  whom  were  already  hooting  with  delight  at  receiv- 
ing it;  while  in  the  second  place,  Ginger's  fellow  warriors, 
who  were  gasping  and  holding  their  sides,  were  provided 
with  a  "breather." 

"If  Britannia  would  only  play  footba',  it  wouldn't  mat- 
ter," roared  the  Rovers'  chairman  in  a  bull's  voice  above 
the  din. 

Five  minutes'  grace,  the  fruit  of  Ginger's  timely  action, 
was  much  appreciated  by  his  comrades,  who  were  able  to 
recover  their  wind  whiJe  the  enemy's  center  forward,  supine 
and  attended  by  the  club  trainer  with  a  sponge  and  a  cor- 
dial, recovered  his.  Nevertheless,  the  referee,  a  cock-spar- 
row in  knickerbockers,  who  tried  to  spoil  a  fine  game  by 
.stopping  it  without  visible  reason  for  doing  so,  felt  he  could 
do  no  less  than  caution  Ginger  for  dangerous  play. 

"Turn  him  off."  Fifteen  thousand  Duckingfielders  be- 
sought the  referee.  "Turn  him  off.  Dirty  dog!" 

"Good  old  Ginger!  Played,  Ginger!  Good  on  yer, 
Ginger!"  proclaimed  thirty-five  thousand  stalwart  Black- 
hamptonians. 

Had  Ginger  received  marching  orders  thirty-five  thou- 
sand Blackhamptonians  would  know  the  reason  why. 

"Don't  know  what  footba'  is  at  Duckingfill,"  said  Mr. 
Augustus  Higginbottom,  glaring  around  with  a  truculence 
awful  to  behold. 

But  they  were  at  it  again.  Quarter  was  neither  asked 
nor  given.  Duckingfield  Britannia  couldn't  play  for  rock 
cakes,  they  couldn't  play  for  toffee  and  bananas,  but  had 
not  the  Sailor  in  goal  performed  one  of  his  miracles  just 
before  the  referee  blew  his  whistle  for  half  time,  the  Rovers 
185 


THE  SAILOR 

would  have  been  a  goal  down  at  that  sorely  needed  interval. 

As  it  was,  when,  at  the  end  of  forty-five  minutes'  pound- 
ing, the  twenty-two  warriors  limped  off  the  ground  to  the 
strain  of  "Hearts  of  Oak,"  rendered  with  extraordinary 
vehemence  by  the  Blackhampton  Excelsior  Prize  Brass 
Band,  no  goal  had  been  scored,  and  fifty  thousand  persons 
and  six  mounted  policemen  appeared  for  the  time  being  rea- 
sonably content. 

"Can't  call  it  footba',  but  you  mark  my  words,  Albert, 
it  is  goin'  to  be  a  hell  of  a  second  half." 

Mr.  Satellite  Albert  could  only  faintly  concur  with  the 
chairman  of  the  club.  He  had  a  rather  weak  heart. 


XIX 

IN  the  Rovers'  dressing-room  the  trainer,  an  obese  in- 
dividual   in   a    dirty   cloth   cap    and   dirtier   sweater, 
handed  round  a  plate  of  sliced  lemons  to  the  team. 
But,  white  as  a  ghost,  sat  the  Sailor  in  a  corner  apart  from 
the  rest.     He  realized  that  the  match  was  only  half  over, 
and  with  all  his  soul  he  wished  it  at  an  end.     He  was  in 
no  mood  for  sucking  lemons  just  now.    The  hand  of  fate 
was  upon  him. 

Everything  seemed  to  be  going  round.  He  was  so  oddly 
and  queerly  excited  that  he  could  hardly  see.  How  in  the 
world  he  had  stopped  that  shot  and  got  rid  of  the  ball  with 
two  Britannias  literally  hurling  themselves  upon  him,  he 
would  never  know.  But  he  understood  dimly,  as  he  sat  chin 
in  hand  on  the  farthest  bench  by  the  washing  basins,  that 
anything  might  happen  before  the  match  was  over.  The 
truth  was,  and  he  simply  dared  not  face  it,  this  terrific 
battle  of  giants  was  a  bit  too  much  for  him.  No,  he  dared 
not  face  that  thought,  he,  whose  dream,  whose  imperial 
1 86 


THE  SAILOR 

destiny  it  was  to  bring  the  Cup  for  the  first  time  to  his 
native  city. 

"Buck  up,  Sailor  boy." 

Ginger,  the  greatest  hero  of  them  all,  had  laid  an  affec- 
tionate hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Buck  up,  Sailor  boy.  You'll  never  stop  a  better  nor 
that  one.  We've  got  'em  boiled." 

Mr.  Augustus  Higginbottom  appeared  in  the  dressing- 
room,  fur  coat,  chocolate  waistcoat,  blue  tie,  spats,  watch- 
chain  and  all.  His  face  had  a  grim  and  dour  expression. 

"Me  lads,"  said  he,  "if  ye  can  make  a  draw  on  it  there's 
two  pound  apiece  for  ye.  And  if  ye  can  win  there's  four. 
Understand  ?" 

They  all  understood  but  Sailor.  At  that  moment  he 
could  neither  hear  nor  see  the  chairman  of  the  committee. 
The  only  person  he  could  see  was  a  certain  young  Arris  in 
a  certain  tree,  and  all  he  knew  was  that  a  decree  of  inexor- 
able fate  compelled  him  to  stand  in  the  shadow  of  that  tree 
for  forty-five  minutes  by  the  clock,  with  the  gaze  of  fifty 
thousand  people  and  six  mounted  policemen  centered  upon 
him. 

The  second  half  of  the  match  began  with  a  sensation.  In 
the  very  first  minute,  the  dauntless  Ginger  checked  a  rush 
by  the  enemy's  left,  gave  the  ball  a  mighty  thump  with  his 
good  right  boot,  and  more  by  luck  than  anything  it  fell  at 
the  feet  of  Dinkie  Dawson.  And  he,  as  all  the  world  knew, 
was;  on  his  day  and  in  his  hour,  a  genius.  He  trapped  the 
ball,  he  diddled  and  dodged,  he  pretended  to  pass  but  he 
didn't.  He  merely  kept  straight  on,  yet  feinting  now  to  the 
right  and  now  to  the  left  of  him.  Britannia's  center  half 
back,  a  bullet-headed  son  of  Hibernia,  challenged  him  ruth- 
lessly, but  at  the  psychological  instant  Dinkie  side-stepped 
in  a  way  he  had,  and  he  of  the  bullet  head  barged  fathoms 
deep  into  the  mud  of  Gamble's  Pleasance.  Britannia's  left 
13  187 


THE  SAILOR 

full  back  now  came  up  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  a  sin- 
gularly ill-advised  proceeding;  he  ought  to  have  waited  for 
trouble  instead  of  going  to  look  for  it  was  the  unanimous 
opinion  of  fifteen  thousand  Duckingfielders,  who  shrieked 
with  dismay  as  Dinkie  and  the  ball  went  pass  the  ill-advised 
one  before  you  could  say  "knife."  And  then  it  was  that 
fifty  thousand  persons  and  six  mounted  policemen  suddenly 
grew  alive  to  an  intensely  critical  situation. 

It  was  this.  Only  one  thing  under  Providence  could 
now  save  Britannia's  citadel.  A  very  fine  and  notable  thing 
it  was,  no  less  than  the  agile  yet  majestic  goalkeeper,  Alex- 
ander MacFadyen  by  name,  late  of  Glasgow  Caledonians, 
and  many  times  an  international  player.  There  was  no  bet- 
ter in  the  world  to  cope  with  such  a  titanic  situation,  but 
in  times  like  these  Dinkie  Dawson  was  not  as  other  men. 

The  heroic  Scot  knew  that,  but  he  didn't  flinch  or  turn  a 
hair.  Alt  the  same,  he  must  not  go  to  Dinkie,  as  his  puir 
f ulish  Saxon  comrade  had ;  Dinkie  must  come  to  him.  "Yes, 
ma  laddie,"  said  the  dour  visage  of  Alexander  MacFadyen, 
"I'll  be  waitin'  for  ye,  I'm  thinkin'." 

It  was  such  a  moment  as  no  pen — leaving  out  Shake- 
speare and  the  football  reporter  for  the  Evening  Star — could 
do  justice  to.  "I'm  waitin'  for  3re,  Dinkie,  ma  laddie,"  said 
Alexander  MacFadyen,  with  Dinkie  coming  on  and  on,  his 
dainty  feet  twinkling  to  the  tunes  of  faerie.  Hardly  so 
much  as  the  horse  of  a  mounted  policeman  ventured  to 
breathe.  For  a  fraction  of  an  instant,  the  two  warriors 
eyed  each  other  like  tiger-cats  about  to  spring.  Crash!  It 
was  sheer  inspiration.  Dinkie  had  drawn  a  bow  at  a  ven- 
ture. The  ball  lay  in  the  corner  of  the  goal  net,  the  citadel 
was  captured,  Britannia's  flag  was  down. 

It  was,  undoubtedly,  in  the  opinion  of  thirty-five  thou- 
sand souls  the  finest  goal  seen  on  Gamble's  Pleasance  within 
the  memory  of  man.  In  the  considered  judgment  of  the 
188 


THE  SAILOR 

other  fifteen  thousand  it  was  such  a  wicked  fluke  that  a 
well  contested  game  was  covered  with  ridicule. 

Over  the  scene  that  followed  it  is  kind  to  draw  the  veil. 
People  of  all  ages  and  both  sexes  made  themselves  so  in- 
describably ridiculous  that  Zeus  of  the  Bright  Sky,  in 
dudgeon  no  doubt  for  the  ruin  of  his  afternoon,  drew  down 
the  blinds  and  sought  to  cool  their  courage  with  one  of  his 
honest  showers  of  rain. 

It  seemed  all  over,  bar  the  shouting.  There  was  only 
twenty  minutes  to  play.  The  Rovers  were  still  leading  one 
goal  to  nothing,  the  attacks  of  the  Britannia  were  being 
shattered  against  the  rock  of  an  impregnable  defense,  when 
a  string  of  tragic  incidents  befell  which  turned  a  sure  tri- 
umph into  dire  disaster. 

Some  maintain  it  was  the  rain  alone  which  caused  the 
debacle.  None  can  deny  that  the  ball  was  greased  by  Jupi- 
ter's shower.  But  even  that  fact  cannot  cover  all  that  hap- 
pened. As  for  the  other  sinister  explanation,  which  is  firmly 
believed  at  Blackhampton  to  this  day,  it  was  never  accepted 
by  the  fellow  players  of  him  who  gave  away  the  match. 

Fate  was  at  the  root  of  the  tragedy.  There  were  twenty 
minutes  to  play,  the  Rovers  were  leading  one  to  nothing,  and 
the  Sailor  had  to  take  a  free  kick  from  goal.  He  could  do 
this  at  his  leisure;  according  to  the  laws  of  the  game  no 
opponent  was  allowed  to  approach.  But  as  he  placed  the 
ball  for  the  kick,  he  somehow  failed  to  notice  in  the  gather- 
ing "gloom  that  Ginger  was  right  in  the  line  of  fire.  Of 
course  he  ought  to  have  done  so.  Yet  so  great  was  his 
excitement  now  that  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing. 
He  took  the  kick;  the  ball  struck  Ginger  full  in  the  middle 
of  the  back  and  rebounded  through  the  goal. 

It  was  growing  so  dark  that  at  first  not  a  soul  realized 
what  had  happened.  By  the  time  the  goalkeeper,  like  a 
man  in  a  dream,  had  retrieved  the  ball  from  the  net,  the 
189 


THE  SAILOR 

awful  truth  was  known.  The  Sailor  had  given  away  the 
match. 

Henry  Harper  never  forgot  to  his  dying  day  the  look  in 
the  eyes  of  Ginger.  In  the  presence  of  their  grim  reproach 
his  one  desire  was  for  the  earth  to  open  and  swallow  him. 

Pandemonium  had  been  unchained,  but  the  Sailor  heard 
it  not,  as  he  leaned  against  the  goalpost  feeling  like  a  man 
in  a  nightmare.  At  that  moment  his  whole  being  was  dom- 
inated by  a  single  thought.  He  had  given  away  the  match. 

Strictly  speaking,  all  was  not  yet  lost.  But  the  Sailor 
was  completely  unnerved  by  his  crime,  and  Ginger's  eyes 
were  haunting  him.  As  he  leaned  against  the  post,  the  far- 
thest from  the  tree  sacred  to  the  memory  of  young  Arris, 
he  knew  that  if  anything  came  to  him  now,  he  would  not 
be  able  to  stop  it. 

Another  shot  came.  It  was  inevitable.  The  gift  of  the 
gods  was  as  wine  in  the  veins  of  Duckingfield  Britannia. 
.They  were  tigers  again:  eleven  parti-colored  tigers.  But 
the  second  shot  was  just  a  slow  trickling  affair  that  any 
goalkeeper  in  his  senses  ought  to  have  been  able  to  deal 
with.  But  the  Sailor  bungled  it  miserably.  He  didn't 
know  how,  he  didn't  know  why,  but  the  ball  wriggled 
slowly  out  of  his  hands  through  the  goal,  and  the  match 
was  lost  beyond  hope  of  recovery. 

There  could  be  no  thought  now  of  the  Cup  coming  to 
Blackhampton.  He  daren't  look  at  Ginger.  He  tried  not 
to  hear,  he  tried  not  to  see.  It  must  all  be  a  hideous  dream. 
But  there  to  the  left  was  the  historic  tree  simply  alive  with 
young  Arrises  cursing  and  scorning  him.  Suddenly  there 
was  a  mighty  surge  by  the  crowd  in  the  farthest  corner  of 
the  ground,  which  called  for  all  the  address  of  the  mounted 
police  to  restrain. 

"Sailor,  you've  sold  the  match." 

The  ugly  words  were  being  bellowed  at  him  out  of  the 
190 


THE  SAILOR 

night.  He  could  hear  the  loud  and  deep  curses  of  the 
Rovers'  partisans;  he  imagined  he  could  see  their  fists  being 
shaken  at  him.  He  wished  he  was  dead,  but  he  had  to 
stand  there  another  twelve  minutes  exposed  to  the  public 
ignominy. 

In  that  twelve  minutes,  Duckingfield  Britannia  scored 
four  goals  more.  All  was  darkness  and  eclipse.  The 
Rovers,  noble  warriors  as  they  were,  had  done  all  that  mor- 
tal men  could  do;  in  the  case  of  the  heroic  Ginger,  they 
might  even  be  said  to  have  done  a  little  more.  But  fate 
was  too  much  for  them.  The  last  line  of  defense,  on  which 
all  depended,  had  played  them  false.  The  Sailor  muddled 
hopelessly  everything  that  came  to  him  now.  The  end  of 
the  game  was  not  merely  a  defeat  for  the  Rovers,  it  was  a 
disaster,  a  rout. 

The  referee  blew  his  whistle  for  the  last  time,  and  Act 
One  of  the  tragedy  was  at  an  end.  But  its  termination 
was  merely  the  signal  for  Act  Two  to  begin.  The  crowd, 
in  a  frenzy  of  rage,  surged  over  the  ground.  "Sailor's  sold 
the  match,"  was  the  cry  of  the  angry  thousands. 

The  oncoming  hordes  had  no  terrors  for  Henry  Harper. 
Let  them  do  with  him  as  they  liked.  Death  would  have 
been  more  than  welcome  as  he  leaned  against  the  goalpost, 
not  seeking  to  escape  the  tender  mercies  of  the  mob. 

It  was  Ginger  who  realized  the  danger. 

"Dink,"  he  called  hoarsely,  "Mac,  Peter,  Joe,  they  are 
coming  for  Sailor.  They'll  kill  him  if  they  catch  holt  on 
him." 

It  was  true.  And  it  seemed  that  the  sternest  fight  of 
that  terrific  day  was  yet  to  be.  An  angry  mob  is  not  respon- 
sible for  its  actions.  There  was  a  fierce  set-to  between  a 
handful  of  good  men,  with  help  from  six  mounted  con- 
stables, and  many  hundreds  bereft  by  an  excitement  which 
at  that  moment  made  them  little  better  than  savages. 
191 


THE  SAILOR 

"Scrag  'im!    Scrag  'im!" 

Henry  Harper  could  hear  their  voices  all  about  him,  but 
little  he  cared.  Indeed  they  were  almost  pleasant  to  his 
ears.  Again  it  was  a  case  of  hard  pounding,  with  the  police 
bearing  a  gallant  part,  and  the  goalkeeper's  escort  taking 
blows  and  freely  returning  them. 

There  was  a  vision  in  the  mind  of  Henry  Harper  which 
he  never  forgot,  of  the  blood  streaming  down  the  face  of 
Ginger  as  he  dealt  out  blows  to  the  right  and  to  the  left 
of  him.  He  never  forgot  the  look  on  the  face  of  Dinkie 
as  they  kept  driving  on  and  driving  home. 

Times  and  again  it  seemed  as  if  the  Rovers'  partisans 
must  tear  their  late  hero  in  pieces.  But  his  escort  got  him 
somehow  to  the  dressing-room,  and  a  strong  force  of  the 
Blackhampton  Constabulary  watched  over  it  for  a  solid  hour 
by  the  pavilion  clock.  By  that  time,  the  crowd  had  dis- 
persed, the  ground  was  clear,  and  Henry  Harper  was  able 
to  go  home. 


XX 


YOU  are  late  for  your  tea,  Mr.  Harper,"  said  Miss 
Foldal.  "It's  twenty  past  seven.  It  will  be  supper 
time  soon." 

The  Sailor  apologized  in  his  gentle,  rather  childlike  way. 
"Do  you  know  where  Ginger  Jukes  is,  miss?"  he  asked, 
in  a  queer  voice. 

"He  came  in   for  his  tea  and   then  went  out  again," 
said  Miss  Foldal,  regulating  her  tone  with  care. 

She  had  been  told  already  by  the  Evening  Star  that  the 
Rovers,  after  leading  by  a  goal  within  twenty  minutes  of  the 
end  of  the  game,  had  suffered  a  crushing  and  incompre- 
hensible defeat,  that  the  crowd  had  made  an  infuriated 
attack  on  Harper,  the  goalkeeper,  and  in  the  blank  space 
192 


THE  SAILOR 

reserved  for  the  latest  news,  it  said  that  in  deference  to  pub- 
lic feeling,  the  committee  of  the  club  had  decided  to  hold 
an  inquiry  into  his  conduct. 

Miss  Foldal  was  far  too  discreet  to  refer  to  the  match. 
But  if  ever  she  had  seen  tragedy  in  a  human  countenance, 
it  was  now  visible  in  the  face  of  this  young  man.  She 
poured  out  a  cup  of  tea  for  him,  which  he  declined.  Then 
he  said,  in  that  queer  voice  which  did  not  seem  to  belong 
to  him,  that  he  would  not  be  in  need  of  supper. 

"If  you  want  my  opinion,  Mr.  Harper,"  said  Miss  Fol- 
dal, "you  have  been  working  too  hard.  I  really  think  the 
best  thing  for  you  is  bed." 

The  young  man  stood  white  as  a  sheet  with  a  face  not 
pleasant  to  look  upon. 

"I  do  reelly.  Go  to  bed  now,  and  I'll  bring  you  a  basin 
of  gruel  with  a  little  something  in  it." 

A  basin  of  gruel  with  a  little  something  in  it  was  Miss 
Foldal's  specific  for  all  the  ills  to  which  flesh  is  heir.  Men- 
tion of  it  was  clear  proof  that  Mr.  Harper's  present  condi- 
tion gave  cause  for  anxiety. 

"I  don't  want  nothing,  miss,"  said  the  young  man,  in  a 
voice  quite  unlike  his  own.  "It's  very  kind  of  you,  but  the 
only  thing  I  want  just  now  is  to  be  let  be." 

Had  Mr.  Jukes  or  any  of  her  other  lodgers  made  that 
speech  it  would  have  seemed  uncivil,  but  Miss  Foldal  knew 
that  Mr.  Harper  was  incapable  of  any  kind  of  intentional 
rudeness.  He  was  as  gentle  as  a  child.  Perhaps  that  was 
why  the  look  now  in  his  eyes  hurt  her  so  much. 

Without  saying  anything  else,  the  young  man  went  up  to 
his  bedroom. 

Time  passed.  The  supper  hour  came  and  went.  Mr. 
Jukes  did  not  return  and  Mr.  Harper  did  not  come  down 
again.  But  it  was  this  latter  fact  that  disconcerted  the  land- 
lady. She  could  not  get  the  look  of  those  eyes  out  of  her 
193 


THE  SAILOR 

brain.  Only  once  had  she  seen  such  a  look  in  the  eyes  of 
any  human  being,  and  that  was  in  those  of  her  Uncle  Fred- 
erick just  before  he  destroyed  himself. 

Nine  struck.  There  was  no  sound  from  the  room  above. 
Miss  Foldal  grew  horribly  afraid.  Memories  of  her  Uncle 
Frederick  had  descended  very  grimly  upon  her. 
'  Perhaps  Mr.  Harper  had  gone  to  bed.  She  hoped  and* 
i>elieved  that  he  had.  And  yet  she  could  not  be  sure.  It 
Was  her  duty  to  go  up  to  his  room  and  inquire.  But  it  was 
too  much  for  her  nerves  to  be  quite  alone  in  the  house. 
Ethel,  the  maid-servant,  had  gone  out  shopping  as  it  was 
Saturday  night,  and  Mr.  Jukes  had  not  yet  come  in  for  his 
supper. 

Miss  Foldal  was  not  a  brave  woman.  Her  deepest  in- 
stinct was  against  going  up  those  stairs.  It  was  much  to 
her  credit  that  she  did  go  up  at  a  quarter  past  nine.  The 
door  of  Mr.  Harper's  room  was  shut,  but  a  light  was  com- 
ing from  under  it. 

She  knocked  so  timidly  that  a  mouse  would  not  have 
heard  her. 

No  answer. 

She  knocked  again,  a  little  louder,  as  she  imagined,  but 
no  louder  in  reality. 

Still  no  answer. 

"It  is  exactly  as  I  feared."  Miss  Foldal  began  to  shake, 
and  the  spirit  of  her  Uncle  Frederick  crept  out  from  under 
the  door. 

She  wanted  to  scream;  indeed,  she  was  about  to  act  in 
this  futile  manner,  when  it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that 
screaming  would  be  no  use  whatever.  Far  wiser  to  open  the 
door,  if  only  out  of  deference  to  the  manes  of  her  uncle, 
whose  end  had  taught  her  that  suicide  was  not  such  a  ter- 
rible thing  after  all. 

At  last  Miss  Foldal  opened  the  door  of  the  bedroom.    A 
194 


THE  SAILOR 

great  surprise  was  in  store,  but  it  was  not  of  the  kind  that 
had  been  provided  by  her  Uncle  Frederick. 

Mr.  Harper,  wearing  his  overcoat  and  cap,  was  in  the  act 
of  strapping  together  a  bag  full  of  clothes.  The  relief  of 
Miss  Foldal  was  great;  at  the  same  time  a  quaver  in  her 
voice  showed  that  she  was  full  of  anxiety. 

"Why,  Mr.  Harper,  you  are  never  going  away?" 

"Yes,  miss." 

"Without  your  supper?" 

"Yes,  miss." 

"Mr.  Harper,  wherever  are  you  going  to?" 

"Dunno,  miss."  The  gentle  voice  had  a  stab  in  it  for  the 
woman's  heart  of  his  landladj'.  "  'Ere's  my  board  and  lodg- 
ing, miss."  He  took  a  sovereign  from  his  pocket,  and  put  it 
in  her  hand.  "I'll  be  very  sorry  to  go.  I'm  thinking  I'll 
never  'ave  another  'ome  like  this." 

Miss  Foldal  thought  so  too.  Somehow  she  was  not  the 
least  ashamed  of  the  sudden  tears  which  sprang  into  her 
eyes.  There  was  some  high  instinct  in  her,  in  spite  of  her 
rather  battered  and  war-worn  appearance,  which  seemed  to 
urge  her  to  protect  him. 

"I  cannot  hear  of  you  going  away  like  this,  Mr.  Harper, 
not  at  this  time  of  night  and  without  your  supper,  I  cannot 
reelly." 

It  was  vain,  however,  of  Miss  Foldal  to  protest.  More- 
over, she  knew  it  was  vain.  There  was  a  look  in  Mr.  Har- 
per's "face  that  all  the  Miss  Foldals  in  the  world  could  not 
have  coped  with. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,  I'm  very  sorry,"  was  all  she  could 
gasp,  and  then  he  was  gone. 


195 


THE  SAILOR 

XXI 

BAG  in  hand  he  entered  the  February  night.     As  he 
turned  up  the  collar  of  his  overcoat  his  excitement 
crystallized  into  a  definite  thought.     Whatever  hap- 
pened he  must  not  meet  Ginger. 

He  didn't  know  where  he  was  going;  he  had  neither  pur- 
pose nor  plan;  his  only  guide  was  a  vague  desire  to  get  a 
long  way  from  Blackhampton  in  a  short  space  of  time. 

In  obedience  to  this  instinct,  he  passed  over  the  canal 
bridge,  the  main  highway  to  the  center  of  the  city,  turned 
down  several  byways  in  order  to  avoid  the  Crown  and 
Cushion,  threaded  a  path  through  a  maze  of  slums  and 
alleys,  and  emerged  at  last,  almost  without  knowing  it, 
within  twenty  yards  of  Blackhampton  Central  Station. 

This  seemed  a  special  act  of  Providence;  and  subsequent 
events  confirmed  Henry  Harper  in  that  view.  He  walked 
through  the  station  booking-hall,  yet  without  taking  a 
ticket,  since  in  a  dim  way  he  felt  it  was  not  wise  to  do  so 
before  you  have  given  the  least  thought  to  where  you  are 
going. 

A  train  was  standing  in  the  station.  The  porters  were 
closing  the  doors,  the  guard  had  taken  out  his  whistle. 

"Jump  in,  sir,  we're  off." 

Henry  Harper  pitched  head  foremost  into  a  first  non- 
smoker,  his  bag  was  pitched  in  after  him,  the  door  was 
slammed,  and  the  train  was  already  passing  through  the 
long  tunnel  at  the  end  of  the  station  before  he  was  able  to 
realize  what  had  happened. 

An  old  lady  was  the  only  other  occupant  of  the  compart- 
ment.    She  was  a  stern  looking  dame,  with  a  magnificent 
fur  cloak,  a  dominant  nose,  fearless  eyes,  and  a  large  black 
hat  with  plenty  of  trimming  but  without  feathers. 
196 


THE  SAILOR 

It  was  clear  from  the  demeanor  of  the  old  lady  that  she 
was  inclined  to  regard  the  intruder  with  disfavor.  How- 
ever, as  she  was  a  person  not  without  consequence  in  her 
own  small  world,  this  was  her  fixed  attitude  of  mind  in 
regard  to  the  vast  majority  of  her  fellow  creatures.  But 
she  never  allowed  herself  to  be  afraid  of  them,  partly  out 
of  pride,  also  because  it  was  good  for  the  character.  All 
the  same,  a  nature  less  powerful  might  easily  have  pulled 
the  cord  and  communicated  with  the  guard,  such  was  the 
look  of  wildness  in  the  eyes  of  her  fellow  traveler.  More- 
over, he  had  fallen  into  her  lap,  and  had  trodden  on  her 
foot  rather  severely,  and  she  was  not  sure  that  he  had 
apologized. 

Between  Duckingfield  Junction  and  High  Moreton  she 
became  involved  in  quite  a  train  of  speculations.  In  the 
first  place,  he  was  obviously  not  a  gentleman.  That  was 
her  habitual  jumping-off  point  in  her  survey  of  the  human 
male.  In  fact,  she  would  have  ignored  his  existence  had 
it  been  possible  to  do  so.  But  her  foot  had  suffered  so  much' 
from  his  clumsiness  that  she  was  not  able  to  put  him  out 
of  her  mind.  Besides,  she  was  a  sharp  and  quizzical  old 
thing,  and  from  the  height  of  her  own  self-consequence  she 
stole  glances  at  him  that  were  a  nice  mingling  of  caution 
and  truculence.  It  was  an  honest,  open,  unusual  face,  there 
was  that  to  be  said  for  it.  The  behavior,  the  manner,  and 
the  portmanteau  marked  H.  H.  were  unconventional,  to 
say  "the  least ;  there  was  an  absence  of  gloves,  but  the  eyes 
v,  ore  remarkable.  Probably  a  young  poet  on  his  way  to 
Oxford  for  the  week-end.  Although  they  confessed  to  two 
of  these  unfortunate  persons  in  her  own  family,  it  was  an 
article  of  her  faith  that  a  poet  was  never  a  gentleman. 

Somehow  the  young  man  in  the  corner  interested  the  old 
lady  so  much  that  when  the  last  of  the  tunnels  was  safely 
passed,  a  temperament  by  nature  adventurous  as  became 
197 


THE  SAILOR 

three  grandsons  in  the  Household  Cavalry  led  her  to  study 
him  at  closer  quarters. 

"Do  you  mind  having  the  window  down  a  little?" 

"No,  lady." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  lowered  the  window,  and  the 
old  lady,  pitying  herself  profoundly  that  she  could  ever  have 
thought  about  him  at  all,  settled  herself  in  her  corner  and 
v/as  very  soon  asleep. 

This  cynical  proceeding  had  no  effect  upon  the  young 
man  opposite.  As  far  as  he  was  concerned  she  did  not  exist, 
any  more  than  he  now  existed  for  her;  moreover,  she  never 
had  existed  for  him,  therefore  the  balance  of  indifference 
was  in  his  favor. 

The  Sailor's  one  preoccupation,  as  the  long  and  slow 
succession  of  stations  passed,  was  the  face  of  Ginger.  It 
was  gazing  through  the  window  at  him  out  of  the  intense 
darkness  of  the  night.  And  what  a  face  it  was,  with  the 
blood  streaming  down  it  and  a  look  in  the  eyes  he  would 
never  forget. 

Where  was  he  going?  He  didn't  know  and  he  didn't 
care,  if  only  it  was  far  enough  from  Blackhampton.  Pres- 
ently he  began  to  feel  cold  and  hungry  and  horribly  lonely. 
Now  he  was  beginning  to  realize  that  Ginger  and  Miss 
Foldal  and  Dinkie  and  the  Rovers  were  things  of  the  past, 
his  misery  grew  more  than  he  could  bear.  His  dream  was 
shattered!  He  would  never  bring  the  Cup  to  Blackhamp- 
ton. And  there  was  the  face  of  Ginger  looking  in  at  the 
window,  and  he  nearly  woke  the  old  lady  by  jumping  up 
with  a  cry  of  agony. 

There  was  nothing  left  for  him  now  but  to  go  on  into 
unending  night.  He  was  moving  out  of  an  unspeakable  past 
into  a  future  of  panic  and  emptiness.  And  then  he  tried  to 
sleep,  but  strange  and  awful  thoughts  prevented  him.  The 
old  lady  awoke  with  a  start,  only  to  find  that  her  feet  were 
198 


THE  SAILOR 

cold  in  spite  of  their  hot  water  bottle,  which  was  also  cold, 
and  was  great  negligence  on  the  part  of  the  railway  com- 
pany. Still,  she  hoped  to  be  at  the  end  of  her  journey  soon. 
In  that  reflection  the  old  lady  was  more  fortunate  than 
her  fellow  traveler,  who  had  no  such  hope  to  console  him. 


XXII 

THE  train  went  on  and  on.  Its  stoppings  and  start- 
ings  were  endless;  the  night  grew  very  cold;  the 
old  lady,  gathering  her  fur  cloak  around  her,  reset- 
tled herself  in  her  corner  and  slept  again.  The  chill  in  the 
heart  of  the  Sailor  was  now  a  deadly  thing.  Repose  for 
him  was  out  of  the  question.  Red  and  W7hite  striped  phan- 
toms converged  upon  him  through  the  gloom;  tier  upon 
tier  of  massed  humanity  rose  shrieking  to  the  sky;  but  there 
was  only  one  face  that  he  could  recognize,  and  it  was  a  face 
he  would  never  forget. 

At  last  the  Sailor  dozed  a  little.  And  then  the  train 
stopped  once  more,  and  an  official  of  the  railway  company 
entered  the  carriage  with  a  demand  for  tickets.  The  old 
lady  found  hers  without  difficulty,  but  the  young  man  oppo- 
site had  no  ticket,  it  appeared.  Also  his  behavior  was  so 
odd  that  at  first  the  official  seemed  to  think  he  was  drunk. 
He  had  no  idea  of  where  he  was  going.  But  the  next  sta- 
tion," it  seemed,  was  Marylebone,  and  that  was  as  far  as  he 
could  go. 

While  the  old  lady  watched  from  her  corner  grimly,  the 
official  was  able  to  gather  that  this  unsatisfactory  traveler 
had  come  from  Blackhampton,  which,  as  he  had  been  so 
unwise  as  to  travel  first  class,  meant  a  sovereign  in  coin  of 
the  realm. 

The  traveler  was  able  to  produce  a  sovereign  from  a  belt 
199 


THE  SAILOR 

which  he  wore  round  his  waist — a  proceeding  which  seemed 
to  stimulate  the  curiosity  of  his  fellow  traveler  in  the  high- 
est degree — and  paid  it  over  without  a  murmur.  The  offi- 
cial wrote  out  a  receipt  with  an  absurd  stump  of  pencil. 

"Thank  you,  mister,"  said  the  young  man. 

The  train  moved  on. 

A  few  minutes  later  it  had  come  to  the  end  of  a  long 
and  wearisome  journey.  The  old  lady  was  the  first  to  leave 
the  carriage.  She  was  assisted  in  doing  so  by  the  ministra- 
tions of  a  very  tall  and  dignified  footman. 

As  the  Sailor  stepped  to  the  platform,  bag  in  hand,  there 
was  a  great  clock  straight  before  him  pointing  to  the  hour 
of  midnight.  Where  was  he?  He  had  never  heard  of 
Marylebone.  It  might  be  England,  it  might  be  Scotland; 
in  his  present  state  of  mind  it  might  be  anywhere. 

"Keb,  sir?"  The  inquiry  surged  all  round  him,  but  the 
Sailor  did  not  want  a  cab. 

His  first  feeling  as  he  stood  on  the  platform  of  that 
immense  station  was  one  of  sheer  bewilderment.  He  didn't 
know  where  he  was,  he  had  nowhere  to  go,  he  had  no 
plans.  An  intense  loneliness  came  over  him  again.  Soon, 
however,  it  was  merged  in  the  exhilaration  of  the  atmos- 
phere around  him.  This  was  a  different  place  from  Black- 
hampton;  it  was  larger,  more  vital,  more  mysterious. 

As  he  walked  slowly  down  the  platform  the  importance 
of  everything  seemed  to  increase.  He  would  have  to  think 
things  out  a  bit,  although  just  now  any  kind  of  thinking 
was  torment. 

He  had  learned  much  during  his  sixteen  months  at  Black- 
hampton,  not  only  in  regard  to  the  world  in  which  he  lived, 
but  also — and  as  he  moved  down  the  platform  with  his  bag 
the  thought  gave  him  a  thrill  of  joy — to  read  and  write. 
He  felt  these  things,  bought  and  paid  for  at  a  heavy  cost, 
were  so  infinitely  precious  that  he  need  not  fear  the  future. 
200 


THE  SAILOR 

Straight  before  his  eyes  was  the  legend,  "Cloak  Room." 
Sixteen  months  ago  it  would  have  been  High  Dutch.  But 
the  new  knowledge  told  him  it  was  the  place  to  leave  your 
bag.  Accordingly,  he  went  and  left  it,  paid  his  twopence, 
and  put  the  ticket  in  exchange  carefully  in  his  belt,  where 
nineteen  sovereigns  and  twelve  half-sovereigns  were  secure. 

He  had  learned  the  meaning  of  money  during  his  six 
years  at  sea.  Perhaps  it  was  the  sight  of  so  much  and  the 
knowledge  of  its  value  that  gave  him  a  thrill  of  power  as 
he  passed  out  of  the  station  into  the  wide,  peopled  immen- 
sity of  this  unknown  land.  There  was  a  policeman  standing 
on  an  island  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  the  time  had 
long  passed  since  those  grim  days  when  he  would  have  been 
as  likely  to  fly  to  the  moon  as  to  address  a  question  to  the 
police. 

"What  place  is  this,  mister?" 

"Marylebone  Road." 

The  information  did  not  seem  very  valuable.  Still,  the 
policeman's  tone  implied  that  it  might  be.  As  the  Sailor 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road  he  was  suddenly  comforted 
by  the  sight  of  manna  in  the  wilderness.  Across  the  way 
was  a  coffee  stall.  Such  a  bright  vision  told  him  how  sore 
was  his  need. 

All  the  same  he  was  not  hungry.  He  drank  two  cups  of 
coffee,  but  he  was  too  excited  to  eat.  That  was  odd,  be- 
cause there  was  nothing  to  excite  him.  But  when  he  turned 
away  from  the  stall  and  started  to  walk  he  didn't  know 
where,  something  curious  and  terrible  had  begun  again  to 
lay  hold  of  his  brain.  Nevertheless,  he  went  on  and  on 
through  streets  interminable,  fully  determined  to  free  him- 
self of  that  eerie,  horrible  feeling. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  face  of  Ginger  perhaps  all  would 
have  been  well.  But  it  was  lurking  everywhere  amid  the 
gloom  and  byways  of  the  night.  The  place  he  was  in  was 
201 


THE  SAILOR 

endless ;  it  was  a  waste  of  bricks  and  mortar.  Even  Liver- 
pool and  the  waterfront  at  Frisco  could  not  compare  with 
it.  Then  it  suddenly  came  upon  him  that  he  was  a  guy. 
This  place  was  London.  It  was  the  only  place  it  could 
be. 

There  was  something  in  the  mere  thought  which  fired 
the  imagination  of  the  Sailor.  The  Isle  of  Dogs  had  been 
London  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  but  this  was  surely  the 
heart  of  the  city.  He  could  not  remember  to  have  seen  such 
houses  as  he  was  passing  now.  Liverpool  and  Frisco  had 
2iad  them  no  doubt.  But  in  his  present  mood  the  mass  and 
'gloom  of  these  great  bulks  addressed  him  strangely.  This 
vastness  immeasurable,  debouching  upon  the  lamps  at  the 
corners  of  the  streets,  was  instinct  with  the  magic  of  the 
future.  It  was  as  if  this  world  of  bricks  and  mortar  tow- 
ering to  the  night  was  girt  with  fabulous  secret  riches. 

Symbols  of  opulence  spoke  to  the  Sailor  as  he  walked. 
Somehow  he  felt  he  could  claim  kinship  with  them.  He 
had  his  store  of  riches  also.  No,  it  was  not  contained  in 
the  belt  around  his  body.  That  was  only  a  very  little 
between  him  and  the  weather;  a  man  like  Klondyke  would 
soon  have  done  it  in.  But  Henry  Harper  could  now  read 
and  write,  that  was  the  thought  which  nerved  him  to  meet 
the  future,  that  was  his  store  of  secret  and  fabulous  wealth. 

God  knew  he  had  paid  a  price  for  Aladdin's  lamp.  A 
week  ago  that  night  he  had  seen  performed  at  the  Black- 
hampton  Lyceum  the  first  play  of  his  life,  "Aladdin's  Won- 
derful Lamp."  He  had  sat  in  the  pit,  Dinkie  Dawson  one 
side  of  him,  Ginger  the  other.  He  had  now  his  own  won- 
derful lamp.  It  was  glowing  and  burning,  a  mass  of  dull 
fire,  in  the  right-hand  corner  of  his  brain.  It  was  a  talis- 
man which  had  come  to  him  at  the  cost  of  blood  and  tears; 
a  magic  gift  of  heaven  that  he  must  guard  with  life  itself. 

On  and  on  he  went.    Now  and  again  the  face  of  Ginger 
202 


THE  SAILOR 

tried  to  overthrow  him,  but  the  presence  of  the  talisman 
meant  much  to  him  now.  .  .  . 

After  weary  hours  his  pace  began  to  fail.  There  were 
no  more  houses  as  far  as  he  could  tell.  Grass  was  under 
his  fe?t;  bushes  of  furze  and  a  clean  smell  of  earth  envel- 
oped him.  The  darkness  was  less,  but  everything  was  very 
still.  Suddenly  he  felt  strangely  tired.  And  then  an  awful 
feeling  crept  upon  him. 

A  low  wooden  seat  was  near,  and  he  sat  on  it.  It  was 
still  dark,  and  the  weather  was  particularly  chill  February. 
As  he  drew  his  overcoat  across  his  knees,  he  was  overmas- 
tered by  a  sense  of  terror.  Somehow  it  seemed  more  subtle 
and  more  deadly  than  all  the  fear  he  had  ever  known;  of 
Auntie,  of  Jack  the  Ripper,  of  the  Chinaman,  of  the  Old 
Man,  of  the  Island  of  San  Pedro,  of  Duckingfield  Bri- 
tannia, of  even  that  blood-stained  visage  of  which  he  could 
still  catch  glimpses  in  the  darkness.  It  was  a  stealthy  dis- 
trust of  Aladdin's  lamp,  the  wonderful  talisman  glowing 
like  a  star  in  the  right-hand  corner  of  his  brain. 

Long  he  sat  in  the  February  small  hours.  He  would  wait 
for  the  light,  having  neither  inclination  nor  strength  to 
continue  his  journey  into  regions  unknown.  It  grew  very 
cold.  And  then  a  new  fear  crept  over  him.  He  felt  he 
was  going  to  become  very  ill. 

However,  he  determined  to  use  all  the  force  of  his  will. 
This  feeling  was  pure  imagination,  he  was  sure.  He  would 
put  it  out  of  his  mind.  It  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death 
not  to  be  ill  now.  And  not  for  a  moment  must  he  think 
of  dying,  now  a  wonderful  talisman  had  been  given  him 
which  was  about  to  unlock  the  doors  of  worlds  beyond  his 
own. 

With  fierce  determination  he  rose  from  the  seat  unstead- 
ily. And  as  he  did  so  he  saw  the  cold,  cold  light  of  the 
14  203 


THE  SAILOR 

morning  paling  the  tops  of  the  distant  trees.  He  began  to 
move  forward  again.  He  would  have  to  keep  going  some- 
how if  he  was  not  to  be  overtaken  by  darkness  and  eclipse.' 
Whatever  he  did,  he  must  hold  on  to  his  identity.  What- 
ever he  did,  he  must  keep  secure  the  treasure  rare  and 
strange  that  was  now  within  himself. 

Suddenly  in  the  light  of  the  dawn,  he  made  out  a  man's 
figure  coming  towards  him.  It  was  a  policeman. 

"What  place  do  they  call  this,  mister?" 

"Barnes  Common." 

They  moved  on  slowly  in  their  opposite  ways. 


BOOK  III 

BEING 
» 

I 

BARNES  COMMON  seemed  a  very  large  place. 
The  Sailor  was  afraid  he  would  not  be  able  to 
keep  on  much  longer,  but  he  had  learned  endurance 
in  his  six  years  before  the  mast.  Weeks  and  months  together 
he  had  just  kept  on  keeping  on  while  he  had  sailed  the 
terrible  seas.  At  that  time  there  was  no  magic  talisman 
to  hold  him  to  his  course,  there  was  neither  hope  nor  faith 
of  the  world  to  be.  But  now  it  was  otherwise.  Surely 
he  had  no  reason  to  give  in,  just  as  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth  were  opening  before  his  eyes. 

He  came  presently  to  a  row  of  houses.  A  road  was 
beyond  and  traffic  was  passing  along  it.  The  hope  of  a 
coffee  stall  sprang  to  his  mind.  He  walked  doggedly  along 
the  road,  until  at  a  point  where  it  was  merged  in  an  impor- 
tant thoroughfare  he  came  upon  a  cabman's  shelter.  And 
there  within,  in  answer  to  his  faith,  were  the  things  he 
sought.  ~  Through  the  open  door  was  a  fire,  a  smell  of 
steaming  fluids,  of  frying  meats,  and  an  honest  bench  on 
which  to  enjoy  them. 

He  asked  no  leave,  but  stumbled  in  and  at  the  beck  of 
his  powerfully  stimulated  senses  ordered  a  kingly  repast, 
and  spread  both  hands  before  the  fire.  Sausages  and  mashed 
potatoes  were  brought  to  him  and  he  sat  down  to  eat,  just 
as  a  very  cheerful  looking  cabman  entered  with  a  face  of 
205 


THE  SAILOR 

professional  red,  and  wearing  apparel  not  unworthy  of  an 
arctic  explorer. 

The  cabman  ordered  a  cup  of  cocoa  and  a  "doorstep," 
and  that  justice  might  be  done  to  them  sat  on  the  bench 
by  the  young  man's  side.  A  little  while  they  ate  in  silence, 
for  both  were  very  hungry.  Then  under  the  influence  of 
food  and  a  good  fire  the  cabman  talked.  His  sociability 
enabled  the  Sailor  to  ask  an  important  question. 

"Can  you  tell  me,  mister,  of  lodgings,  clean  and  decent, 
for  a  single  man?" 

"What  sort  o'  lodgings  are  you  wantin',  mister?"  The 
cabman  was  favorably  impressed  by  the  young  man's  air  of 
politeness. 

"Lodgings  clean  and  decent,"  said  the  Sailor. 

"I  know  that,"  said  the  cabman  urbanely,  "but  what  do 
you  want  to  pay  fur  'em?" 

The  Sailor  reflected.  There  were  nineteen  sovereigns 
and  twelve  half-sovereigns  in  his  belt;  all  the  same,  he  was 
enough  of  a  landsman  to  know  the  value  of  money. 

"I  want  to  live  cheap,"  he  said,  with  extreme  simplicity. 
"Just  as  cheap  as  I  can,  and  be  clean  and  decent,  too." 

The  cabman  let  his  large  wise  eyes  flow  over  the  Sailor, 
and  quietly  took  his  measure  as  became  a  veteran  of  the 
town. 

"Ever  tried  Bowdon  House?" 

The  Sailor  shook  his  head. 

The  cabman  ruminated. 

"Tizzey  a  day  fur  your  cubicle  an'  the  use  o'  the  kitchen 
fire." 

The  young  man  was  not  insulted,  although  the  cabman 
feared  he  might  have  been,  so  good  were  his  clothes,  so 
gravely  courteous  his  aspect. 

"O'    coarse,"   said   the   cabman,    "it   ain't    Buckingham 
Palace,  it's  no  use  purtendin'  it  is." 
206 


THE  SAILOR 

"So  long  as  it's  clean  and  decent,"  said  the  Sailor. 

"I  give  you  my  word  for  that.  Never  stayed  there 
myself,  but  I  know  them  as  has." 

The  Sailor  nodded. 

"O'  course,  it  ain't  the  Sizzle.  I  don't  say  that  all  on 
'em  moves  in  high  circles,  that  would  be  tellin'  a  lie,  but  if 
you  don't  mind  all  sorts  there's  wuss  homes,  they  tell  me. 
in  this  metropolus,  than  Bowdon  House." 

The  young  man  said  he  would  try  it,  anyway,  if  it  wasn't 
far. 

"It's  at  the  back  o'  Victoria,"  said  the  cabman.  "Can't 
miss  it  if  you  go  sharp  to  the  left  at  the  second  turnin'  past 
the  station." 

Henry  Harper  had  to  confess  that  he  didn't  know  the 
way  to  Victoria  Station. 

"It's  quite  easy,"  said  the  cabman.  "Buss  14  that  goes 
by  here  will  set  you  down  at  Victoria.  Then  do  as  I  say, 
or  ask  a  bobby  to  put  you  right." 

Armed  with  these  instructions,  Henry  Harper  presently 
set  out  for  Bowdon  House.  Feeling  much  better  for  a 
good  meal  and  human  intercourse,  he  found  it  without 
difficulty.  Bowdon  House  was  a  large  and  somber  building. 
Its  exterior  rather  abashed  the  Sailor.  But  a  sure  instinct 
•warned  him  that  now  he  could  not  afford  to  be  abashed  by 
/anything.  Therefore  he  entered  and  boldly  paid  the  sum 
of  sixpence  for  a  vacant  cubicle. 

The  .beds  might  not  be  equal  to  the  Sizzle,  but  they  were 
clean  and  decent  undoubtedly,  and  not  too  hard  for  a  sailor. 
You  could  have  a  bath  for  a  penny,  you  could  keep  your 
own  private  frying  pan,  you  were  allowed  the  use  of  the 
kitchen  range  to  cook  any  food  you  liked  to  buy,  and  a 
comfortable  place  was  provided  where  you  could  sit  and 
eat  it.  The  company  was  mixed,  it  was  true,  as  the  cab- 
man had  said,  but  these  were  solid  advantages,  and  the 
207 


THE  SAILOR 

chief  of  them  at  the  moment,  in  the  opinion  of  Henry 
Harper,  was  that  you  could  go  to  bed  when  you  liked  and 
stay  there  forever  if  only  you  continued  to  pay  your  six- 
pence a  night. 

The  first  thing  the  young  man  did  was  to  have  a  hot 
bath.  He  then  hired  for  a  penny  a  nightgown,  as  clean  and 
decent  as  his  cubicle,  and  within  a  very  short  time  was 
in  a  sleep  so  long  and  deep  that  it  banished  entirely  the 
new  fear  that  had  crept  into  his  brain. 

About  five  o'clock  in  the  evening  he  awoke  a  new  man. 
After  a  toilet  as  careful  as  the  absence  of  a  razor  and  a  hair- 
brush would  permit,  he  found  his  way  to  the  common  room. 
He  felt  extremely  hungry,  but  the  outlay  of  another  six- 
pence, brought  him  a  pot  of  tea,  some  brown  bread  and  but- 
ter, and  a  slice  of  meat  pie. 

There  was  only  one  other  patron  in  the  common  room, 
and  he  at  once  attracted  Henry  Harper's  curiosity.  This 
individual  was  engaged  in  toasting  a  muffin  at  the  large  and 
clear  fire,  and  even  with  the  Sailor's  experience  of  Miss 
Foldal  in  this  kind,  he  had  never  seen  one  of  these  delight- 
ful articles  dealt  with  in  a  manner  of  such  sacerdotal  del- 
icacy. 

A  blue  china  plate  was  warming  before  the  fire,  and  the 
muffin  was  presently  placed  on  it,  soaked  in  butter  in  true 
Miss  Foldal  style,  and  brought  to  table  piping  hot.  The 
young  man  had  chosen  a  place  as  near  the  fire  as  he  could 
get,  and  the  muffin  expert  took  a  place  opposite,  poured  out 
a  brew  of  tea  from  his  own  blue  china  teapot,  and  to  the 
Sailor's  amazement  squeezed  a  little  lemon  juice  into  it. 

This  Sybarite  was  eating  his  first  piece  of  muffin  with  an 
air  of  feminine  elegance  when  he  suddenly  caught  the  young 
man's  eye.  The  limpid  glance  seemed  to  stimulate  his  own 
blue  orb  to  a  mild  and  calm  curiosity.  The  Sybarite  looked 
the  young  man  up  and  down,  but  continued  to  eat  his  muf- 
208 


THE  SAILOR 

fin  with  a  kind  of  apostolic  pleasantness,  which  somehow 
recalled  to  Henry  Harper  the  Reverend  Rogers  and  a  cer- 
tain famous  tea-party  at  the  Brookfield  Street  Mission  Hall 
in  his  distant  youth. 

Presently,  to  Henry  Harper's  grave  surprise,  the  muffin 
eater  was  pleased  to  discourse  a  little  of  men  and  things. 

The  Sailor  in  his  genuine  modesty  was  flattered,  more- 
over he  was  charmed.  Never  in  all  his  wanderings  had  he 
heard  a  man  discourse  in  this  way.  It  might  have  been 
Klondyke  himself — at  times  there  was  an  odd  resemblance 
to  that  immortal  in  the  occasional  grace  notes  of  the  Syb- 
arite. Yet  it  was  a  suggestion  rather  than  a  resemblance. 
This  was  a  kind  of  composite  of  Klondyke  and  the  Rev- 
erend Rogers,  a  Klondyke  raised  to  a  higher  intellectual 
power. 

Of  course,  this  was  only  one  aspect  of  the  Sybarite,  and 
that  the  least  important,  because  with  every  allowance  for 
the  sacred  memory  of  the  Reverend  Rogers,  the  person 
opposite  was  quite  the  most  wonderful  talker  Henry  Harper 
had  ever  heard  in  his  life. 

Had  the  Sailor  heard  the  music  of  Palestrina,  which  at 
that  period  was  a  pleasure  to  come,  he  might  have  imagined 
he  was  listening  to  it.  The  voice  of  the  Sybarite  was  meas- 
ured yet  floating,  his  phrases  were  endless  yet  perfectly 
rounded  and  definite,  there  was  a  note  of  weariness,  older 
than  the  world,  yet  there  was  a  charm,  a  lucidity,  a  mellow 
completeness  that  was  perfectly  amazing.  The  Sailor,  with 
a  wonderful  talisman  now  burning  bright  in  his  soul,  was 
enchanted. 

This  remarkable  person  owned,  with  a  sort  of  frankness 
which  was  not  frankness  at  all,  that  there  were  just  two 
things  he  could  do  of  practical  utility.  One,  it  seemed,  was 
to  toast  a  muffin  with  anybody,  the  other  was  to  make  the 
perfect  cup  of  tea.  Here  he  ended  and  here  he  began.  He 
209 


THE  SAILOR 

had  also  the  rather  unacademic  habit  of  quoting  dead  lan- 
guages in  a  manner  so  remarkably  impressive  as  to  bewilder 
the  Sailor. 

Henry  Harper  listened  with  round  eyes.  He  devoured 
the  Sybarite.  His  talisman  seemed  to  tell  him  that  he  was 
on  the  verge  of  worlds  denied  to  the  common  run  of  men. 
This  remarkable  person  had  even  a  private  language  of  his 
own.  He  used  words  and  phrases  so  charged  with  esoteric 
meanings  that  they  somehow  seemed  to  make  the  Aladdin's 
lamp  burn  brighter  in  the  Sailor's  soul.  He  had  a  knowl- 
edge of  books  comprehensive  and  wonderful,  of  all  ages  and 
countries  apparently,  yet  when  the  young  man  ventured  to 
ask  timidly,  but  with  a  sort  of  pride  in  his  question,  whether 
he  had  read  the  "Pickwick  Papers,"  the  answer  overthrew 
him  completely. 

"God  forbid,"  said  the  Sybarite. 

Henry  Harper  was  utterly  defeated.  And  yet  he  was 
charmed.  Here  was  a  depth  far  beyond  Miss  Foldal,  who 
had  suggested  that  he  should  get  a  ticket  for  the  Free 
Library  in  order  to  be  able  to  read  Charles  Dickens. 

"I  suppose,  sir" — the  "sir"  would  have  had  the  sanction 
of  Ginger,  the  perfect  man  of  the  world — "I  suppose,  sir, 
you  don't  think  much  of  Charles  Dickens?" 

After  all,  that  was  what  the  Sybarite  really  meant. 

"Not  necessarily  that.  He  is  simply  not  in  one's  ethos, 
don't  you  know." 

The  Sailor  was  baffled  completely,  but  in  some  way  he 
was  a  shrewd  young  man.  He  had  soon  decided  that  it 
would  be  wiser  to  listen  than  attempt  to  talk  himself. 

The  Sybarite  was  fastidious  but  he  was  not  shy.  He 
liked  to  speak  out  of  the  depths  of  his  wisdom  to  a  fit  audi- 
ence if  the  spirit  was  on  him.  He  knew  that  he  talked 
well,  even  beautifully;  the  immortal  flair  of  the  artist  was 
there;  and  in  this  strange  young  man  with  the  deep  eyes 
210 


THE  SAILOR 

was  the  perfect  listener,  and  that  was  what  the  soul  of  the 
Sybarite  always  demanded. 

The  Sailor  listened  with  a  kind  of  fascinated  intensity; 
also  he  watched  all  that  the  Sybarite  did  with  a  sense  of 
esthetic  delight.  His  lightest  movements,  like  his  voice, 
were  ordered,  feline,  sacramental.  It  made  no  difference 
whether  he  was  toasting  muffins,  buttering  them,  or  merely 
eating  them;  whether  he  was  pouring  out  tea  or  conveying 
it  in  a  blue  china  cup  to  his  lips,  it  was  all  done  in  a  man- 
ner to  suggest  the  very  poetry  of  motion.  And  when  it 
came  to  a  matter  of  rolling  a  cigarette,  which  it  presently 
did,  the  almost  catlike  grace  of  the  long  and  slender  hands 
that  were  so  clean  and  kept  so  perfectly,  touched  a  chord 
very  deep  in  the  Sailor. 

The  name  of  this  wonderful  person,  as  the  Sailor  learned 
in  the  course  of  the  next  two  days,  was  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin. 
He  had  been  formerly  a  fellow  and  tutor  of  Gamaliel  Col- 
lege, Oxford;  he  let  out  much  pertaining  to  himself  in  the 
most  casual  way  in  an  exegesis  which  was  yet  so  neutral  that 
it  seemed  to  be  more  than  wisdom  itself.  Also  he  did  not 
shrink  from  impartial  consideration  of  an  act  which  cir- 
cumstances had  imposed  upon  him. 

"It  was  one's  duty  to  resign,  I  assure  you."  As  the 
enchanted  hours  passed,  the  discourse  of  the  Sybarite  grew 
more  intimate,  so  rapt  and  so  responsive  was  the  young  man 
with  the  deep  eyes  in  his  elemental  simplicity.  "It  was 
most  trying  to  have  to  leave  one's  warm  bed  in  the  middle 
of  winter  at  eight  o'clock,  to  breakfast  hastily,  merely  for 
what?  Merely  to  sustain  an  oaf  from  the  public  schools  in 
a  death  grapple  with  an  idyll  of  Theocritus.  There's  a 
labor  of  Sisyphus  for  you.  We  Horrobins  are  an  old  race; 
who  knows  what  mysteries  we  have  profaned  in  the  immor- 
tal past!  I  hope  I  make  myself  clear." 

Mr.  Horrobin  was  not  making  himself  at  all  clear,  but 

211 


THE  SAILOR 

the  Sailor  was  striving  hard  to  keep  track  of  him.  The 
Sybarite,  a  creature  of  intuitions  when  in  the  full  enjoyment 
of  "his  personal  ethos,"  was  ready  to  help  him  to  do  so. 

"We  Horrobins  are  what  is  called  in  the  physical  world 
born-tired.  We  are  as  incapable  of  continuous  effort  as  a 
dram  drinker  is  of  total  abstinence.  This  absurd  cosmos  of 
airships  and  automobiles  bores  us  to  tears.  A  mere  labor  of 
Sisyphus,  I  assure  you,  my  dear  fellow.  The  whole  human 
race  striving  to  get  to  nowhere  as  fast  as  it  can  in  order  to 
return  as  quickly  as  possible.  And  why?  I  will  tell  you. 
Man  himself  has  profaned  the  mysteries.  The  crime  of 
Prometheus  is  not  yet  expiated  on  our  miserable  planet. 
Take  my  own  case.  I  am  fit  for  one  thing  only,  and  that  is 
to  lie  in  bed  smoking  good  tobacco  with  my  books  around 
me,  translating  the  'Satyricon'  of  Petronius  Arbiter.  It 
seems  an  absurd  thing  to  say,  but  given  the  bed,  the  tobacco, 
the  books,  and  the  right  conjunction  of  the  planetary  bodies, 
which  in  these  matters  is  most  essential,  and  I  honestly  be- 
lieve I  am  able  to  delve  deeper  into  the  matchless  style  of 
Petronius  than  any  other  person  living  or  dead." 

The  Sailor  was  awed.  The  "Satyricon"  of  Petronius  Ar- 
biter was  whole  worlds  away  from  Miss  Foedal. 

"Whether  I  shall  ever  finish  my  translation  is  not  of  the 
slightest  importance.  Personally,  I  am  inclined  to  think  not. 
That  is  one's  own  private  labor  of  Sisyphus.  It  won  me 
a  fellowship  and  ultimately  lost  it  me.  Let  us  assume  that 
I  finish  it.  There  is  not  a  publisher  or  an  academic  body 
in  Europe  or  America  that  would  venture  to  publish  it. 
Rome  under  Nero,  my  dear  fellow,  the  feast  of  Trimalchio. 
And  assuming  it  is  finished  and  assuming  it  is  published,  it 
will  be  a  thing  entirely  without  value,  either  human  or  com- 
mercial. And  why?  Because  there  is  no  absolute  canon  of 
literary  style  existing  in  the  world.  It  is  one  labor  of  Sisy- 
phus the  more  for  a  man  to  say  this  is  Petronius  to  a  world 
212 


THE  SAILOR 

for  whom  Petronius  can  never  exist.  Do  I  make  myself 
clear?" 

The  Sailor  was  silent,  but  round  eyes  of  wonder  were 
trained  upon  the  blue-eyed,  yellow-bearded  face  of  Mr.  Esme 
Horrobin.  The  Sybarite,  agreeably  alive  to  the  compliment, 
sighed  deeply. 

"It  may  have  been  right  to  resign  one's  fellowship,  yet 
one  doesn't  say  it  was.  It  may  not  have  been  right,  yet  one 
doesn't  say  it  was  not.  At  least,  a  fellowship  of  Gamaliel 
in  certain  of  its  aspects  is  better  than  bear-leading  the  aris- 
tocracy, and  a  person  of  inadequate  resources  is  sometimes 
driven  even  to  that." 

The  next  morning,  the  Sailor  retrieved  his  bag  from  the 
cloak  room  at  Marylebone  Station,  to  which  he  went  by  bus 
from  Victoria  without  much  difficulty.  He  felt  wonder- 
fully better  for  his  day's  rest,  and  much  fortified  by  the  so- 
ciety of  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin.  Friendship  had  always  been 
precious  to  Henry  Harper.  There  was  something  in  his  na- 
ture that  craved  for  it,  yet  he  had  never  been  able  to  satisfy 
the  instinct  easily.  But  this  inspired  muffin  eater  opened  up 
a  whole  world  of  new  and  gorgeous  promise  now  that  he 
had  Aladdin's  lamp  to  read  him  by.  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin 
was  what  Klondyke  would  have  called  a  high-brow.  But 
he  was  something  more.  He  was  a  man  who  had  the  key 
to  many  hidden  things. 

When  the  Sailor  had  brought  his  bag  to  Bowdon  House, 
the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  find  Marlow's  Dictionary. 
Miss  Foldal  had  presented  him  with  her  own  private  copy 
of  this  invaluable  work,  and  the  name  Gwladys  Foldal  was 
to  be  seen  on  the  flyleaf.  "Ethos"  was  the  first  word  he 
looked  up,  but  it  was  not  there.  He  then  sought  "oaf," 
whose  definition  was  fairly  clear.  Then  he  went  on  to  "bear- 
leading"  and  to  "aristocracy."  These  proved  less  simple. 
Their  private  meanings  were  plain,  more  or  less,  but  to 
213 


THE  SAILOR 

correlate  them  was  beyond  the  Sailor's  powers,  nor  did 
it  fall  within  the  scope  of  Marlow's  Dictionary  to  explain 
what  the  Sybarite  meant  when  he  spoke  of  bear-leading  the 
aristocracy. 


II 


HENRY  HARPER'S  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Esme 
Horrobin  had  important  consequences.  That  gen- 
tleman's interest  deepened  almost  to  a  mild  liking 
for  the  young  man.  He  was  a  type  new  to  the  Sybarite; 
and  he  might  have  taken  pleasure  in  his  primitive  attitude 
to  life  had  it  been  possible  for  such  a  developed  mind  to  take 
pleasure  in  anything. 

The  company  at  Bowdon  House  was  certainly  mixed,  but 
Mr.  Esme  Horrobin  was  a  miracle  of  courtesy  to  all  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact.  He  had  a  smile  and  a  nod  for  a 
bricklayer's  laborer,  a  bus  conductor  out  of  a  billet,  a  de- 
cayed clerk  or  a  reformed  pickpocket.  No  matter  who  they 
were,  his  charming  manners  intrigued  them,  but  also  kept 
them  at  their  distance.  When  he  fell  into  the  language  of 
democracy,  which  he  sometimes  did  for  his  own  amusement, 
it  was  always  set  off  by  an  access  of  the  patrician  to  his 
general  air.  By  this  simple  means  he  maintained  the  balance 
of  power  in  the  body  politic.  He  had  grasped  the  fact 
that  every  man  is  at  heart  a  snob.  Even  the  young  man 
who  had  followed  the  sea  accepted  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin's 
estimate  of  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin. 

Indeed,  the  Sailor  was  absorbing  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin  at 
every  pore.  He  felt  it  to  be  a  liberal  education  to  sit  at 
the  same  table,  and  when  he  went  to  his  cubicle  there  were 
at  least  half  a  dozen  carefully  remembered  words  to  look 
up  in  Marlow's  Dictionary.  But  it  would  not  do  to  linger 
214 


THE  SAILOR 

in  the  land  of  the  lotus.  He  must  find  a  means  of  earning 
a  living. 

It  occurred  to  the  Sailor  on  the  morning  of  his  third  day 
at  Bowdon  House,  that  he  might  ask  Mr.  Horrobin  for  a 
little  advice  on  the  matter.  But  he  did  not  find  it  easy  to 
do  so.  The  young  man  was  very  shy.  It  was  one  thing 
to  listen  to  Mr.  Horrobin,  but  quite  another  to  talk  to  him. 
However,  after  tea  on  the  third  evening,  when  no  one  was 
by,  he  screwed  up  courage  and  boldly  asked  whether  Mr. 
Horrobin  knew  of  a  billet  for  a  chap  who  didn't  mind  hard 
work,  or  how  such  a  thing  could  be  obtained. 

Frankly  Mr.  Horrobin  did  not.  It  was  the  first  time  in 
his  life  that  he  had  been  met  by  any  such  problem.  The 
problem  for  Mr.  Horrobin  had  always  been  of  a  very  differ- 
ent kind.  His  tone  seemed  to  express  the  unusual  when  he 
asked  the  young  man  if  he  had  any  particular  form  of  occu- 
pation in  view. 

"I'd  like  something  to  do  with  literature,  sir,"  said  Henry 
Harper,  venturing  timidly  upon  a  new  word. 

"Ah."  Mr.  Horrobin  scratched  a  yellow-whiskered  chin. 
It  was  very  ironical  that  a  young  man  who  had  asked 
whether  he  read  Dickens  should  now  seek  advice  upon  such 
a  matter. 

"Do  you  mean  reading  literature,  my  dear  fellow,  writing 
*  literature,  or  selling  literature?" 

The  young  man  explained  very  simply  that  it  was  the 
selling"  of  literature  he  had  in  mind. 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin  gravely.  But  he  had  a 
kind  heart.  And  if  he  really  took  to  a  person,  which  he 
very  seldom  did,  he  had  the  sort  of  disposition  that  is  mildly 
helpful.  And  he  had  taken  to  this  young  man,  therefore  he 
felt  inclined  to  do  what  he  could  for  him. 

Mr.  Horrobin  rolled  and  lit  a  cigarette.  After  five  min- 
iites'  hard  thought  inspiration  came.  Its  impact  was  al- 
215 


THE  SAILOR 

most  dramatic,  except  that  in  no  circumstances  was   Mr, 
Esme  Horrobin  ever  dramatic. 

"I  really  think,"  he  said,  "I  must  give  you  a  line  to 
Rudge,  my  bookseller,  in  the  Charing  Cross  Road.  He  is  a 
man  who  might  help  you ;  at  least  he  may  know  a  man  who 
might  help  you.  Yes,  a  little  line  to  Rudge.  Pray  remind 
me  tomorrow." 

The  young  man  was  filled  with  gratitude.  But  he  al- 
lowed his  hopes  to  run  too  high.  Even  a  little  line  to  Rudge 
the  bookseller  was  not  a  thing  to  compass  in  this  offhand 
way.  Tomorrow  in  the  mouth  of  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin  was 
a  very  comprehensive  term.  It  was  Tomorrow  that  he  was 
going  to  complete  his  translation  of  the  "Satyricon"  of 
Petronius;  it  was  Tomorrow  that  he  would  return  to  the 
world  in  which  he  was  born ;  it  was  Tomorrow  that  he  would 
rise  earlier  and  forswear  the  practice  of  smoking  and  read- 
ing in  bed.  Therefore,  with  the  promised  letter  to  Rudge 
the  bookseller  burning  a  hole  in  his  mind  the  young  man 
spent  a  very  anxious  tomorrow  waiting  for  Mr.  Esme  Hor- 
robin to  emerge  from  his  cubicle. 

"No  use  asking  for  Mr.  Orrobin,"  he  was  told  finally 
by  the  groom  of  the  chambers,  a  man  old  and  sour  and  by 
nature  the  complete  pessimist.  "It's  one  of  his  days  in  bed. 
He'll  not  put  his  nose  outside  his  cubicle  until  tea  time." 

That  discreet  hour  was  on  the  wane  before  Mr.  Horrobin 
was  to  be  seen  at  work  with  a  kettle,  a  caddy,  and  a  toast- 
ing fork.  Even  then  he  was  in  such  conversational  feather 
that  it  was  nearly  three  hours  later  before  the  young  man 
was  able  to  edge  in  a  timid  reminder. 

"I  have  not  forgotten,"  said  Mr.  Horrobin,  all  charm 
and  amenity.  "But  remind  me  tomorrow.  I  will  write 
most  gladly  to  Rudge.  He  is  quite  a  good  fellow." 

The  Sailor  grew  desperate.     It  seemed  impossible  to  live 
through  a  second  tomorrow  of  this  kind. 
216 


THE  SAILOR 

"If  I  get  a  bit  of  paper  and  an  envelope  and  a  pen  and 
ink,  will  you  have  any  objection  to  writing  the  letter  now, 
sir?" 

"My  dear  fellow" — the  grace  notes  were  languid  and 
delicate — "I  shall  be  delighted.  But  why  tonight?  It 
hardly  seems  worth  while  to  trouble  about  it  tonight." 

But  the  young  man  rose  from  the  common  room  table 
with  almost  a  sensation  of  fear  upon  him,  and  ran  to  his 
cubicle,  where  all  the  materials  for  a  little  line  to  Rudge 
the  bookseller  had  been  in  readiness  since  eight  o'clock 
that  morning. 

Mr.  Horrobin  smiled  when  they  were  brought  to  him,  a 
smile  half  weariness,  half  indulgent  patronage.  Even  then 
it  was  necessary  to  consume  two  more  cigarettes  before  he 
could  take  the  extreme  course  of  addressing  Rudge  the  book- 
seller. Finally,  he  was  addressed  as  follows: 

Mr.  Esme  Horrobin  presents  his  compliments  to  Mr. 
Rudge,  and  will  be  glad  if  he  can  find  employment  on  his 
staff,  or  on  that  of  any  bookselling  friends,  for  the  bearer, 
whom  he  will  find  clean,  respectful,  obliging,  and  anxious  to 
improve  himself. 

The  letter  was  composed  with  much  care  and  precision, 
and  written  in  a  hand  of  such  spiderlike  elegance  as  hardly 
to  be  legible,  notwithstanding  that  every  "t"  was  crossed 
and  every  comma  in  its  place.  Then  came  the  business  of 
sealing-  it.  Mr.  Horrobin  produced  a  tiny  piece  of  red  seal- 
ing wax  from  some  unsuspected  purlieu  of  himself;  a  pre- 
lude to  a  delicately  solemn  performance  with  a  wax  vesta, 
which  he  took  from  a  silver  box  at  the  end  of  his  watch 
chain,  and  a  signet  ring  which  he  gracefully  removed  from 
a  finger  of  his  right  hand. 


217 


THE  SAILOR 


III 


THE  next  morning,  before  nine  o'clock,  armed  with  a 
red-sealed  document  addressed  in  a  kind  of  ultra- 
neat  Chinese,  "To  Mr.  Rudge,  Bookseller,  Charing 
Cross  Road,"  the  Sailor  set  out  upon  one  phase  the  more  of 
an  adventurous  life. 

It  was  not  easy  to  find  the  Charing  Cross  Road,  and 
when  even  he  had  done  so,  Mr.  Rudge  was  not  there.  Book- 
sellers were  in  abundance  on  both  sides  of  the  street.  Mr. 
Hogan  was  there,  Messrs.  Cook  and  Hunt,  Messrs.  Lewis 
and  Grieve;  in  fact,  there  were  booksellers  by  the  score,  but 
Mr.  Rudge  was  not  of  these.  In  the  end,  however,  patience 
was  rewarded.  There  was  a  tiny  shop  on  the  right  near  the 
top  of  the  long  street,  which  bore  the  magic  name  on  its 
front  in  letters  so  faded  as  to  be  almost  undecipherable. 

Only  one  person  was  in  the  shop,  a  small  and  birdlike 
man  to  whom  Henry  Harper  presented  Mr.  Horrobin's 
letter.  The  recipient  was  apparently  impressed  by  it. 

"Mr.  Horrobin,  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Rudge  the  bookseller — 
the  small  and  birdlike  man  was  not  less  than  he — in  a  tone 
of  reverence  as  he  broke  the  seal. 

A  man  of  parts,  Mr.  Rudge  was  proud  of  an  acquaint- 
ance which  might  almost  be  considered  non-professional. 
When  out  of  funds,  Mr.  Horrobin  would  sell  Mr.  Rudge 
a  classic  at  a  very  little  below  its  original  cost,  and  when  in 
funds  would  buy  it  back  at  a  price  somewhat  less  than  that 
at  which  he  had  sold  it.  Mr.  Rudge  did  not  gain  pecuniarily 
by  the  transaction,  but  in  the  course  of  the  deal  Mr.  Horro- 
bin would  discourse  so  charmingly  upon  the  classics  in  gen- 
eral that  Mr.  Rudge  felt  it  was  as  good  as  a  lecture  at  the 
Royal  Institution.  Although  not  a  scholar  himself  in  the 
academic  sense,  he  had  a  ripe  regard  for  those  who  were. 
218 


THE  SAILOR 

In  the  mind  of  his  bookseller,  Mr.  Horrobin  stood  for  Cul- 
ture with  a  very  large  letter. 

Mr.  Rudge  was  not  in  urgent  need  of  an  assistant.  But 
he  had  felt  lately  that  he  would  like  one.  He  was  getting 
old.  It  seemed  a  special  act  of  grace  that  Mr.  Horrobin 
should  have  sent  him  this  young  man. 

Perhaps  it  was  Mr.  Rudge's  reverence  for  Mr.  Horrobin 
which  committed  him  to  a  bold  course.  It  was  stretching 
a  point,  but  Mr.  Horrobin  was  Mr.  Horrobin,  and  in  the 
special  circumstances  it  seemed  the  part  of  homage  for  pure 
intellect  to  do  what  he  could  for  the  bearer.  Thus,  after  a 
few  minutes'  consideration  of  the  matter,  Henry  Harper  was 
engaged  at  a  salary  of  twenty-five  shillings  a  week  to  be  in 
attendance  at  the  shop  from  eight  till  seven,  and  eight  till  two- 
Saturdays. 

This  was  a  stroke  of  real  luck.  A  special  providence  had 
seemed  to  watch  over  the  Sailor  ever  since  he  had  left  the 
Margaret  Carey.  The  situation  that  had  been  offered  was 
exactly  the  one  he  would  have  chosen.  The  mere  sight 
of  a  shop  crammed  with  treasures  ancient  and  mysterious 
was  like  a  glimpse  of  an  enchanted  land.  The  previous  day 
he  had  bought  a  copy  of  the  "Arabian  Nights"  for  a  shilling. 
Such  facility  had  he  now  gained  in  reading  that  he  had 
dipped  into  its  pages  with  a  sharp  sense  of  delight.  No. 
249,  Charing  Cross  Road,  was  a  veritable  Cave  of  the  Forty 
Robbers. 

These  endless  rows  of  shelves  were  magic  casements  open- 
ing on  fairyland.  The  Sailor  felt  that  the  turning  point 
of  his  life  had  come.  A  cosmos  of  new  worlds  was  spread 
before  him  now.  Moreover,  it  was  his  to  enter  and  enjoy. 

He  had  come,  as  it  seemed,  miraculously,  upon  a  period 

of  expansion  and  true  growth.     His  duties  in  the  shop  were 

light.     This  was  one  of  those  quiet  businesses  that  offer 

many  intervals  of  leisure.    Also  Mr.  Rudge,  as  became  .one 

15  219 


THE  SAILOR 

with  a  regard  for  the  things  of  the  mind,  gave  his  assistant 
a  chance  "to  improve  himself"  in  accordance  with  Mr.  Hor- 
robin's  suggestion.  Perhaps  that  happy  and  fortunate  phrase 
had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  new  prosperity.  Mr.  Rudge 
had  been  flattered  by  such  a  request  coming  from  a  man 
of  such  distinction ;  he  felt  he  must  live  up  to  it  by  allowing 
Henry  Harper  to  improve  himself  as  much  as  possible. 

The  Sailor  had  entered  Elysium.  But  he  had  the  good 
sense  to  walk  warily.  He  knew  now  that  it  was  over-read- 
ing, the  danger  against  which  Ginger  had  solemnly  warned 
him,  that  had  brought  about  the  Blackhampton  catastrophe. 
He  must  always  be  on  his  guard,  yet  now  the  freedom  was 
his  of  all  these  magic  shelves,  it  was  by  no  means  easy  to 
stick  to  that  resolve. 

Mr.  Rudge  dwelt  at  the  back  of  the  shop.  Most  of  his 
time  was  passed  in  a  small,  dark,  and  stuffy  sitting-room, 
where  he  ate  his  meals  and  applied  himself  to  Culture  at  every 
reasonable  opportunity.  Now  that  he  had  an  assistant,  he 
was  able  to  bestow  more  time  than  ever  upon  the  things 
of  the  mind.  He  spent  half  his  days  and  half  his  nights  taking 
endless  notes,  in  a  meticulous  hand,  for  a  great  work  he  had 
conceived  forty-two  years  ago  when  he  had  migrated  from 
Birmingham  to  the  metropolis.  This  magnum  opus  was  to 
be  called  "A  History  of  the  World,"  and  was  to  consist  of 
forty  volumes,  with  a  supplementary  volume  as  an  index, 
making  forty-one  in  all.  Each  was  to  have  four  hundred  and 
eighty  pages,  which  were  to  be  divided  into  twenty-four  chap- 
ters. There  were  to  be  no  illustrations. 

Four  decades  had  passed  since  the  golden  hour  in  which 
this  scheme  was  born.  In  a  spare  room  above  the  shop 
were  a  number  of  large  tin  trunks  full  of  notes,  for  the  great 
work,  all  very  carefully  coded  and  docketed.  These  were 
the  fruits  of  forty-two  years'  amazing  industry.  Every  year 
these  labors  grew  more  comprehensive,  more  unceasing.  But 
220 


THE  SAILOR 

the  odd  thing  was  that  only  the  first  sentence  of  the  first  vol- 
ume of  the  opus  was  yet  in  being.  It  ran,  "  'In  the  beginning,' 
says  Holy  Writ,  'was  the  Word.'  "  And  even  that  pregnant 
sentence  had  yet  to  be  put  on  paper.  At  present,  it  lay  like 
the  text  of  the  History  itself,  in  the  head  of  the  author. 

With  Henry  Harper  to  mind  the  shop,  the  historian  was 
able  to  devote  more  time  to  the  work  of  his  life.  This  was 
a  fortunate  matter,  because  Mr.  Rudge  was  already  within  a 
few  months  of  seventy,  and  forty  volumes  and  an  index  had 
yet  to  be  written.  As  a  fact,  considerable  portions  of  the 
index  were  already  in  existence;  and  during  Henry  Harper's 
first  week  in  the  front  shop  it  received  a  valuable  accession 
in  the  form  of  "Bulrushes,  Vol.  IX.,  pp.  243-245.  Moses  in, 
Vol.  III.,  p.  1 20."  Careful  and  voluminous  notes  upon  Bul- 
rushes, based  upon  an  unknown  work  that  had  lately  arrived 
in  a  consignment  of  second-hand  books  from  Sheffield,  went 
to  line  the  bottom  of  yet  another  large  trunk  which  had 
been  added  recently  to  the  attic  above  the  shop. 


IV 


THE  day  soon  came  when  Henry  Harper  said  good-by 
to  Mr.  Horrobin  and  Bowdon  House.    Mr.  Rudge 
took  a  fancy  to  him  from  the  first.    It  may  have  been 
his  high  credentials  partly ;  no  one  could  have  been  equipped 
with-  a  better  start  in  life  than  the  imprimatur  of  such  a 
scholar  and  such  a  gentleman  as  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin.    But 
at  the  same  time  there  was  much  to  like  in  the  young  man 
himself.     He  was  diligent  and  respectful  and  his  heart  was 
in  his  work;  also,  and  perhaps  this  counted  more  with  Mr. 
Rudge  than  anything  else,  he  was  very  anxious  to  improve 
himself.    And  Mr.  Rudge,  who  was  an  altruist  as  well  as 
a  lover  of  Culture,  was  very  anxious  to  improve  him. 
221 


THE  SAILOR 

Sometimes  Mr.  Rudge  had  a  feeling  of  loneliness,  not- 
withstanding the  immense  labor  to  which  he  had  dedicated 
his  life.  This  was  due  in  a  measure  to  the  fact  that  a 
nephew  he  had  adopted  had  taken  ta  sudden  distaste  for  the 
Charing  Cross  Road,  and  had  now  been  twelve  months  at 
sea.  A  bedroom  he  had  occupied  above  the  shop  was  vacant ; 
and  the  use  of  it  was  presently  offered  to  Henry  Harper. 

The  young  man  accepted  it  gratefully.  It  was  one  more 
rare  stroke  of  luck;  he  was  now  free  to  dwell  in  the  land  of 
faerie  all  day  and  all  night.  It  seemed  as  if  this  was  to  be 
a  golden  time. 

In  a  sense  it  was.  Aladdin's  lamp  was  fed  continually 
and  kept  freshly  trimmed.  The  Sailor  began  to  make  sur- 
prising progress  in  his  studies,  and  his  kind  master,  when 
not  too  completely  absorbed  in  his  own  titanic  labors  after 
supper,  would  sometimes  help  him.  In  fact,  it  was  Mr. 
Rudge  who  first  introduced  him  to  grammar.  Klondyke  had 
never  mentioned  it.  Miss  Foldal  had  never  mentioned  it. 
Mr.  Horrobin  had  never  mentioned  it.  Mr.  Rudge  it  was 
who  first  brought  grammar  home  to  Henry  Harper. 

Reading  was  important,  said  Mr.  Rudge,  also  writing, 
also  arithmetic,  but  these  things,  excellent  in  themselves, 
paled  in  the  presence  of  grammar.  You  simply  could  not  do 
without  it.  He  could  never  have  planned  his  "History  of 
the  World"  in  forty  volumes  excluding  the  index,  let  alone 
have  prepared  a  concrete  foundation  for  such  a  work,  without 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  this  science.  It  was  the  key  to  all 
Culture,  and  Culture  was  the  crown  of  all  wisdom. 

On  the  shelves  of  the  shop  were  several  works  on  the  sub- 
ject. And  Mr.  Rudge  soon  began  to  spare  an  hour  after 
supper  every  night  from  his  own  labors,  in  order  that  Henry 
Harper  might  acquire  the  key  to  the  higher  walks  of  mental 
experience. 

The  young  man  took  far  less  kindly  to  grammar  than  he 

222 


THE  SAILOR 

did  to  reading,  writing,  arithmetic,  or  even  geography,  which 
Miss  Foldal  considered  one  of  the  mere  frills  of  erudition. 
He  could  see  neither  rhyme  nor  reason  in  this  new  study; 
but  Mr.  Rudge  assured  him  it  was  so  important  that  he  felt 
bound  to  persevere. 

Moreover,  these  efforts  brought  their  reward.  They  kept 
him  certain  hours  each  day  from  the  things  for  which  he 
had  a  passion,  so  that  when  he  felt  he  could  turn  to  them 
again  his  delight  was  the  more  intense. 

The  books  he  read  were  very  miscellaneous,  but  Mr. 
Rudge  had  too  broad  a  mind  to  exercise  a  censorship.  In 
his  view,  as  became  a  bookseller  pur  sang,  all  books  were 
good,  but  some  were  better  than  others. 

For  instance,  works  of  the  imagination  were  less  good  than 
other  branches  of  literature.  In  Volume  XXXIX  of  the 
"History  of  the  World"  a  chapter  was  to  be  devoted  to 
Shakespeare,  pp.  260284,  wherein  homage  would  be  paid  to 
a  remarkable  man,  but  it  would  be  shown  that  the  adulation 
lavished  upon  one  who  relied  so  much  on  imagination  was  out 
of  all  proportion  to  that  received  by  Hayden,  the  author 
of  the  "Dictionary  of  Dates."  Without  that  epoch-making 
work  the  "History  of  the  World"  could  not  have  been  un- 
dertaken. 

Ill-assorted  the  Sailor's  reading  might  be,  but  this  was 
a  time  of  true  development.  Day  by  day  Aladdin's  lamp 
burned  brighter.  There  was  little  cause  to  regret  Black- 
hampton,  dire  tragedy  as  his  flight  must  ever  be.  When  he 
had  been  a  fortnight  with  Mr.  Rudge  he  tried  to  write  Gin- 
ger a  letter. 

To  begin  it,  however,  was  one  thing;  to  complete  it  an- 
other. It  seemed  so  light  and  callous  in  comparison  with 
his  depth  of  feeling  that  he  tore  it  up.  He  was  disgraced 
forever  in  the  sight  of  Ginger  and  his  peers. 

Therefore  he  decided  to  write  to  Miss  Foldal  instead. 
223 


THE  SAILOR 

But  when  he  took  pen  in  hand,  somehow  he  lost  courage. 
He  could  have  no  interest  for  her  now.  It  would  be  best 
to  forget  Blackhampton,  to  put  it,  if  possible,  out  of  his  life. 

Still  he  felt  rather  lonely  sometimes.  Mr.  Rudge  was 
wonderfully  kind,  but  he  lived  in  a  world  of  his  own.  And 
the  only  compensations  Henry  Harper  now  had  for  the 
crowded  epoch  of  Blackhampton  were  the  books  in  the  shop 
which  he  devoured  ravenously,  and  the  daily  visits  of  the 
charlady,  Mrs.  Greaves. 

For  many  years  she  had  been  the  factotum  of  Mr.  Elihu 
Rudge.  Every  morning  she  made  his  fire,  cooked  his  meals, 
swept  and  garnished  his  home,  and  "did  for  him"  generally. 
She  was  old,  thin,  somber  and  battered,  and  she  had  the 
depth  of  a  bottomless  abyss. 

Mrs.  Greaves  was  a  treasure.  Mr.  Rudge  depended  upon 
her  in  everything.  She  was  an  autocrat,  but  women  of  her 
dynamic  power  are  bound  to  be.  She  despised  all  men, 
frankly  and  coldly.  In  the  purview  of  Mrs.  Caroline  Agnes 
Greaves,  man  was  a  poor  thing.  Woman  who  could  get 
round  him,  who  could  walk  over  him,  who  could  set  him  up 
and  put  him  down,  merely  allowed  him  to  take  precedence  in 
order  that  she  might  handle  him  to  better  advantage.  She 
had  a  great  contempt  for  an  institution  that  was  no  "use 
any  way,"  and  to  this  law  of  nature  it  was  not  to  be  ex- 
pected that  "a  nine  pence  to  the  shilling"  creature  like  Mr. 
Henry  Harper  would  provide  an  exception. 


ONE  evening  the  Sailor  made  a  discovery.     At  first, 
however,  he  was  far  from  grasping  what  it  meant. 
Like  many  things  intimately  concerned  with  fate,  it 
seemed  a  trivial  and  commonplace  matter.     It  was  pres- 
224 


THE  SAILOR 

ently  to  change  the  current  of  his  life,  but  it  was  not  until 
long  after  the  change  was  wrought  that  he  saw  the  hand  of 
destiny. 

After  a  week  of  delight  he  turned  the  last  page  of  "Vanity 
Fair"  by  the  famous  author,  William  Makepeace  Thackeray, 
the  rival  and  contemporary  of  Charles  Dickens,  the  author 
of  the  "Pickwick  Papers."  It  was  within  a  few  minutes  of 
midnight,  and  as  Mr.  Rudge,  engaged  upon  copious  notes  of 
the  life  of  Charles  XII  of  Sweden,  made  no  sign  of  going 
to  bed,  Henry  Harper  determined  to  allow  himself  one 
more  hour. 

Therefore  he  took  a  candle  and  entered  the  front  shop 
with  a  sense  of  adventure.  First  he  put  back  "Vanity  Fair," 
Volume  II,  on  its  shelf,  and  then  raising  his  candle  on  high, 
with  the  eagle  glance  of  stout  Cortez,  he  surveyed  all  the 
new  worlds  about  him.  With  a  thrill  of  joy  he  stood  ponder- 
ing which  kingdom  he  should  enter.  Should  it  be  "The 
Origin  of  Species,"  by  Charles  Darwin,  which  his  master 
said  was  an  important  work  and  had  been  laid  under  con- 
tribution for  the  History?  Should  it  be  the  "Queens  of 
England,"  by  Agnes  Strickland,  also  several  times  to  be 
quoted  in  the  History?  Or  should  it  be  Volume  CXLI  of 
Brown  s  Magazine,  2s.  gd.,  re-bound  with  part  of  the  July 
number  missing? 

By  pure  chance  the  choice  fell  upon  Brown's  Magazine, 
incomplete  as  it  was,  and  in  its  outward  seeming  entirely  com- 
monplace. He  took  the  volume  from  its  shelf,  beat  the  dust 
out  of  it,  and  carried  it  into  the  sitting-room. 

He  began  to  read  at  the  first  page.  This  happened  to  be 
the  opening  of  a  serial  story,  "The  Adventures  of  George 
Gregory;  A  Tale  of  the  High  Seas,"  by  Anon.  And  the 
tale  proved  so  entrancing  that  that  night  the  young  man  did 
not  go  to  bed  until  it  was  nearly  time  to  get  up  again. 

Without  being  aware  of  it  he  had  found  his  kingdom. 
225 


THE  SAILOR 

Here  were  atmosphere  and  color,  space  and  light.  Here 
was  the  life  he  had  known  and  realized,  set  forth  in  the 
vicarious  glory  of  the  printed  page.  For  many  days  to  come 
he  could  think  of  little  save  "The  Adventures  of  George 
Gregory."  This  strange  tale  of  the  high  seas,  over  which 
his  master  shook  his  head  sadly  when  it  was  shown  to  him, 
declaring  it  to  be  a  work  of  the  imagination  and  therefore 
of  very  small  account,  had  a  glamour  quite  extraordinary  for 
Henry  Harper.  It  brought  back  the  Margaret  Carey  and  his 
years  of  bitter  servitude.  It  conjured  up  Mr.  Thompson  and 
the  Chinaman,  the  Old  Man  and  the  Island  of  San  Pedro. 

With  these  august  shades  raised  again  in  the  mind  of  the 
Sailor,  "The  Adventures  of  George  Gregory"  gained  an 
authority  they  could  not  otherwise  have  had.  In  many  of  its 
details  the  story  was  obviously  inaccurate.  Sometimes  Anon 
made  statements  about  the  Belle  Fortune,  the  name  of  the 
ship,  and  the  Pacific  Isles,  upon  one  of  which  it  was  wrecked, 
that  almost  made  Henry  Harper  doubt  whether  George 
Gregory  had  ever  been  to  sea  at  all.  However,  he  soon 
learned  that  it  was  his  duty  to  crush  these  unworthy  sus- 
picions and  to  yield  entirely  to  the  wonderful  feast  of  incident 
spread  before  him. 

Charles  Dickens,  and  even  W.  M.  Thackeray,  for  all  his 
knowledge  of  the  world,  were  poor  things  compared  with 
Anon.  It  was  a  real  misfortune  that  the  part  of  the  July 
number  of  Brown  s  Magazine  which  was  missing  contained 
an  installment  of  "The  Adventures,"  but  there  was  no  help 
for  it.  Moreover,  having  realized  the  fact,  the  gift  of  the 
gods,  Aladdin's  lamp,  came  to  the  assistance  of  the  Sailor. 

With  the  help  of  the  magic  talisman  it  was  quite  easy 
to  fill  in  the  missing  part  which  contained  the  adventures  of 
poor  George  when  marooned,  not  on  the  Island  of  San  Pedro, 
but  on  an  island  in  the  southern  seas.  There  would  certainly 
be  serpents,  and  for  that  reason  he  would  have  to  keep  out  of 
226 


THE  SAILOR 

the  trees;  and  although  the  July  number  was  not  able  to 
supply  the  facts,  once  you  had  Aladdin's  lamp  it  was  a  very 
simple  matter  to  make  good  the  omission. 

One  thing  leads  to  another.  ''The  Adventures  of  George 
Gregory,"  imperfect  as  they  were,  fastened  such  a  torip  on  the 
mind  of  Henry  Harper,  that  one  dull  Monday  afternoon  in 
March,  when  he  sat  in  the  shop  near  the  oil-stove  waiting 
for  an  infrequent  customer,  a  great  thought  came  to  him. 
Might  it  not  be  possible  to  improve  upon  George  Gregory 
with  the  aid  of  the  talisman  and  his  own  experience? 

It  was  a  very  daring  thought,  but  he  was  sustained  in  it 
by  the  conclusion  to  which  he  had  come:  the  work  of  Anon, 
exciting  and  ingenious  as  it  certainly  was,  was  not  the  high 
seas  as  the  Sailor  had  once  envisaged  them.  The  color,  the 
mystery,  the  discomfort,  the  horror  were  not  really  there. 
Even  the  marooning  of  poor  George  upon  the  Island  of  Juan 
Fernandez  did  not  thrill  your  blood  as  it  ought  to  have 
done.  True,  it  could  be  urged  that  the  part  containing  the 
episode  was  missing;  but  in  no  case  would  it  have  been  pos- 
sible to  equal  in  horror  and  intensity  the  marooning  of  Sailor 
upon  the  Island  of  San  Pedro  with  serpents  in  every  tree 
around  him,  although  with  equal  truth  it  might  be  urged  by 
the  skeptical  that  the  incident  never  took  place  at  all. 

"Never  took  place  at  all!"  lisped  Aladdin's  lamp  in  magic 
syllables.  "Pray,  what  do  you  mean?  It  certainly  took 
place  in  your  experience,  and  in  the  opinion  of  your  learned 
master  who  is  writing  a  history  of  the  world  in  forty  vol- 
umes, that  is  the  only  thing  that  matters." 

A  flash  of  the  talisman  was  soon  to  raise  a  bottle  of  ink 
and  a  quire  of  foolscap.  Therefore  one  evening  after  supper, 
Mr.  Rudge,  still  at  Charles  XII  of  Sweden,  was  startled 
painfully  when  "The  Adventures  of  Dick  Smith  on  the  High 
Seas,"  by  Henry  Harper,  Chapter  One,  was  shown  to  him. 
It  was  a  fall,  but  his  master  was  too  kind  to  say  so.  These 
227 


THE  SAILOR 

misspent  hours  could  have  been  used  for  a  further  enrich- 
ment of  the  mind.  He  might  have  added  to  his  knowledge 
of  grammar.  He  might  have  ventured  upon  the  study  of 
shorthand  itself,  a  science  of  which  Mr.  Rudge  never  ceased 
to  deplore  his  own  ignorance.  However,  he  said  nothing, 
and  went  on  with  the  great  work. 

Thus,  not  realizing  the  true  feelings  of  his  master,  the 
young  man  continued  to  supplement  the  entrancing  but  in- 
complete "Adventures  of  George  Gregory"  with  his  own 
experience.  The  strange  tale  grew  at  the  back  of  the  genie 
v/ho  tended  the  lamp,  and  with  it  grew  the  soul  of  Henry 
Harper.  In  this  new  and  wonderful  realm  he  had  entered 
it  seemed  that  the  Sailor  had  surely  found  his  kingdom.  Deep 
down  in  himself  were  latent  faculties  which  he  had  not  known 
were  there.  They  were  now  springing  forth  gloriously  into 
the  light. 

All  his  life  he  had  been  a  dreamer  of  dreams;  now  the 
power  was  his  of  making  them  come  true,  he  had  a  world 
of  his  own  in  which  to  live.  He  was  only  half  awake  as 
yet  to  the  world  around  him;  and  this  arrest  of  growth  was 
for  a  time  his  weakness  and  his  strength.  It  is  impossible, 
it  is  said,  to  touch  pitch  and  not  be  defiled.  The  worth 
of  that  aphorism  was  about  to  be  tried  by  the  clairvoyant 
soul  of  Henry  Harper. 

At  this  time,  while  he  was  drawing  very  painfully  and 
yet  rapturously  upon  his  inner  life,  he  was  like  an  expanding 
flower.  All  his  leisure  was  not  spent  in  the  back  parlor 
at  No.  249,  Charing  Cross  Road.  There  were  hours  when 
he  walked  abroad  into  the  streets  of  the  great  city. 

Much  was  hidden  from  his  eyes  as  yet.  The  truth  was  it 
was  not  his  own  great  city  in  which  he  walked.  He  gazed 
and  saw,  listened  and  heard  in  a  mirage  of  fanciful  ignorance. 
A  life  of  unimaginable  squalor  and  hardship  had  not  been 
able  to  slay  the  genie  sleeping  in  that  elemental  soul.  But  it 
228 


THE  SAILOR 

had  yet  to  get  its  range  of  values  in  the  many  worlds 
around  it. 

One  Sunday  morning  in  the  spring,  in  one  of  his  enchanted 
walks  about  the  city  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  he  chanced 
to  enter  Hyde  Park.  It  was  the  hour  when  the  churches  of 
the  neighborhood  disgorged  their  fashionable  congregations. 
Here,  as  he  sat  near  the  statue  of  Achilles  and  watched  the 
brilliant  throng  pass  by,  a  feeling  of  awe  and  bewilderment 
overcame  him.  He  had  never  realized  before  that  his  fel- 
low occupants  of  the  planet  could  be  so  wonderful.  Here 
was  a  significance,  a  beauty,  a  harmony  of  aspect  beyond 
anything  he  had  imagined  to  be  possible.  The  fine-ladyhood 
of  Miss  Foldal  was  nothing  in  comparison  with  that  queening 
it  all  around  him.  Even  the  quality  of  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin 
paled  in  luster.  This  was  a  very  remarkable  world  into 
which  he  had  strayed.  He  had  almost  a  sense  of  guilt  at 
rinding  himself  there.  With  such  clothes  as  he  wore  and  such 
a  humility  of  heart  as  he  had,  he  had  clearly  no  right  of 
entry  to  this  paradise.  But  there  he  was  with  every  nerve 
alive,  and  the  scene  burned  itself  vividly  into  his  heart  and 
brain. 

These  gorgeous  beings  with  their  kingliness  of  mien,  these 
children  of  the  sun  who  spoke  with  the  accent  of  the  gods 
meant  much  more  to  the  primitive  soul  of  Henry  Harper 
than  as  yet  it  could  understand.  In  the  intoxication  of  the 
hour,  with  the  sun  and  the  birds,  the  trees,  the  green  earth, 
the  "bright  flowers  paying  their  homage  to  the  grace  and 
beauty  of  his  countrywomen,  he  felt  like  an  angel  who  has 
fallen  out  of  heaven,  who  after  aeons  of  time  in  a  bottomless 
hell  is  permitted  to  see  again  a  fair  heritage  that  once  was  his. 

The  genie  had  unlocked  another  door.  Henry  Harper 
was  now  in  a  world  of  romance.  In  order  to  know  what 
these  wonderful  beings  truly  were  he  listened  eagerly  for  frag- 
ments of  their  talk  as  they  passed  by.  All  of  a  sudden  there 
229 


THE  SAILOR 

came  miraculously  a  voice  that  had  a  tang  of  ocean  in  it. 
There  and  then  was  he  flung  out  of  Hyde  Park  to  the  deck 
of  the  Margaret  Carey. 

Leaping  at  the  sound  of  a  laugh,  a  full-chested  music  the 
Sailor  could  never  forget,  he  saw,  a  few  yards  off,  the  on- 
coming figures  of  a  man  and  a  girl.  Both  were  tall  and 
young  and  splendid;  both  seemed  to  be  dressed  in  the  last 
cry  of  fashion.  Moreover  they  bore  themselves  with  the 
assured  grace  of  a  sweet  ship  under  canvas. 

The  pair  were  clearly  brother  and  sister,  and  the  figure 
of  the  man,  at  least,  was  extraordinarily  familiar  to  Henry 
Harper.  Yet  almost  before  he  had  realized  them,  they  were 
level  with  him.  It  was  not  until  they  were  actually  past  the 
seat  on  which  he  sat  that  there  came  a  flash  of  recognition. 
The  man  was  Klondyke. 

For  an  instant  the  heart  of  the  Sailor  stood  still.  The 
immortal  had  almost  touched  his  knee,  yet  he  was  yards 
away  already.  But  Klondyke  it  was,  laughing  his  great 
note  and  rolling  out  his  rich  and  peculiar  dialect.  It  was 
Klondyke  in  a  top  hat  and  a  tail  coat,  looking  as  if  he  had 
come  out  of  a  bandbox.  Who  could  believe  that  such  fault- 
less magnificence  had  been  washed  habitually  out  of  its  berth 
in  the  half-deck  of  the  Margaret  Carey? 

He  did  not  look  a  bit  older  than  when  the  Sailor  had  seen 
him  last,  that  unhappy  six  years  ago  when  his  friend  shook 
him  by  the  hand,  told  him  to  stick  to  his  reading  and  writing, 
and  then  started  to  walk  across  Asia.  And  in  that  time 
Klondyke  did  not  appear  to  have  changed  at  all.  He  had  the 
same  brown,  large-featured  face,  the  same  keen  and  cheerful 
eye,  the  same  roll  in  his  gait,  and  that  cool,  indefinable,  you- 
be-damned  air  that  was  both  admired  and  resented  aboard 
the  Margaret  Carey. 

By  the  time  the  Sailor  had  recovered  from  his  surprise, 
Klondyke  was  out  of  sight.  A  strong  impulse  then  came 
230 


THE  SAILOR 

upon  Henry  Harper  to  go  after  his  friend  and  declare  him- 
self. But  a  feeling  of  timidity  defeated  him.  Besides,  he 
understood  more  fully  at  this  moment  than  ever  before  that 
there  were  whole  continents  between  such  a  man  as  Klondyke 
and  such  a  man  as  Henry  Harper. 


VI 


THE  emotions  of  the  Sailor  were  many  and  conflicting 
as  he  made  his  way  back  to  Charing  Cross  Road  to 
the  homely  meal  which  Mrs.  Greaves  provided  for 
his  master  and  himself.  A  long  afternoon  and  evening  fol- 
lowed in  which  Dick  Smith  and  the  brigantine  Excelsior 
roamed  the  high  seas. 

Infinite  pains  had  now  brought  the  narrative  to  Chapter 
Six.  But  for  some  days  progress  was  very  slow.  The 
figure  of  Klondyke  held  the  thoughts  of  the  Sailor.  Surely 
it  was  cowardice  not  to  have  made  himself  known.  It  was 
treason  to  assume  that  his  friend,  in  spite  of  the  wonderful 
girl  by  his  side,  would  not  have  been  glad  to  see  him  again. 
Yet  was  it  ?  That  was  the  half  formed  fear  which  tormented 
him.  Klondyke  had  forgotten  his  existence:  so  much  was 
clear  because  he  had  almost  touched  his  knee  as  he  went  by. 
And  why  should  he  remember  him?  Who  was  he  that  he 
should  be  remembered  by  such  a  man  as  Klondyke?  The 
tale~of  the  high  seas  had  a  bad  week.  The  Sailor  was  held 
in  thrall  by  an  emanation  from  the  past.  How  Klondyke 
would  have  roared  had  he  known  what  he  was  at!  Somehow 
it  set  the  blood  tingling  in  Henry  Harper's  ears  to  reflect  that 
it  was  he  who  a  few  brief  years  ago  had  first  introduced  him 
to  reading  and  writing. 

Do  as  he  would,  it  was  not  a  propitious  hour  for  the  story 
of  Dick  Smith  and  the  brigantine  Excelsior.  And  when  the 
231 


THE  SAILOR 

next  Sunday  came  he  had  to  decide  whether  or  not  to  go  to 
Hyde  Park  in  the  hope  of  seeing  the  immortal.  Finally,  in 
a  state  of  utter  misgiving,  he  went.  This  time,  although  he 
sat  a  long  hour  on  a  seat  near  the  statue  of  Achilles,  there 
was  never  a  sign  of  him.  Yet  he  was  content  to  be  disap- 
pointed, for  the  longer  he  sat  the  more  clearly  he  knew  that 
cowardice  would  defeat  him  again  should  Klondyke  and  his 
attendant  nymph  appear. 

Henry  Harper  was  coming  nowr  to  a  phase  in  which  ladies 
were  to  play  their  part.  Mrs.  Greaves  had  a  niece,  it  seemed. 
From  brilliant  accounts  furnished  from  time  to  time  he 
learned  that  she  was  a  strikingly  gifted  creature,  not  only 
endowed  with  beauty,  but  also  with  brains  in  a  very  high 
degree. 

"Miss  Cora  Dobbs,"  in  the  words  of  her  aunt,  "was  an 
actress  by  profession,  and  she  had  done  so  well  in  it  that 
she  had  a  flat  of  her  own  round  the  corner  in  the  Avenue. 
Toffs  as  understood  Cora's  merit  thought  'ighly  of  her  talent. 
She  could  dance  and  she  could  sing,  and  she  earned  such 
good  money  that  she  had  a  nest-egg  put  by." 

Henry  Harper  was  at  first  too  absorbed  in  his  work  to 
pay  much  attention  to  the  charlady's  discourses  upon  her 
niece.  Besides,  had  he  not  known  Miss  Gwladys  Foldal  who 
had  played  in  Shakespeare  and  been  admitted  to  an  intimacy 
of  a  most  intellectual  kind  ?  The  indifference  of  Mr.  Harper 
seemed  to  pique  Mrs.  Greaves.  She  often  recurred  to  the 
subject  of  Miss  Dobbs;  moreover,  she  seemed  anxious  for 
the  young  man  to  realize  that  "although  she  wras  the  niece  of 
one  as  didn't  pretend  to  be  anythink,  Cora  herself  was  a 
lady." 

Such  statements  were  not  really  necessary.     In  the  eyes 

of  Mr.  Harper  every  woman  was  a  lady  more  or  less,  even  if 

to  that  rule  there  must  always  be  one  signal  exception.     He 

had  a  deep-rooted  chivalry  for  Mrs.  Greaves'  sex.    He  even 

232 


THE  SAILOR 

treated  her,  flat-chested,  bearded  and  ferret-like  as  she  was, 
with  an  instinctive  courtesy  which  she  at  once  set  down  as 
weakness  of  character. 

For  a  reason  Mr.  Harper  did  not  try  to  fathom — just  now 
he  was  far  too  deep  in  his  task  to  give  much  thought  to  the 
matter — Mrs.  Greaves  seemed  most  anxious  that  he  should 
make  the  acquaintance  of  Miss  Cora  Dobbs.  One  reason, 
it  is  true,  she  gave.  "Mr.  Arper  was  a  snail  as  was  too  much 
in  his  shell.  He  wanted  a  bright  and  knowing  girl  like 
Cora  to  tote  him  around  a  bit  and  teach  him  not  to  be 
afraid  of  life." 

Mrs.  Greaves  had  such  a  contempt  for  Mr.  Harper's  sex 
that  her  solicitude  was  rather  strange.  As  for  its  two  speci- 
mens for  whom  she  "did"  daily,  the  emotion  they  inspired 
was  one  of  deadly  cynicism.  In  her  razor-like  judgment  they 
were  as  soft  as  pap.  It  was  therefore  the  more  remarkable 
that  she  should  now  take  such  an  interest  in  the  welfare 
of  the  younger  man. 

What  was  he  writing?  Lips  of  cautious  curiosity  were 
always  asking  the  question.  A  book!  She  was  greatly  in- 
terested in  books  and  had  always  been  since  she  had  "done" 
for  a  gentleman  who  got  fifty  pounds  for  every  one  that  he 
wrote.  What  did  Mr.  Harper  expect  to  get  by  it? 

It  had  not  occurred  to  Mr.  Harper  that  he  would  get  any- 
thing by  it. 

"Why  write  it  then?"  she  asked  with  acrid  surprise. 
WKy  get  up  so  early  and  sit  up  so  late?  Why  use  all 
that  good  ink  and  expensive  paper  if  he  didn't  expect  to  get 
something  out  of  it? 

The  young  man  was  writing  it  because  he  felt  he  must. 

"I  sometimes  think  you  must  be  a  reg'lar  soft-biled  un," 
said  Mrs.  Greaves,  with  an  air  of  personal  affront.  "I  do, 
honest.  Wasting  your  time  like  that  .  .  .  and  mine  as 
well!" 

233 


THE  SAILOR 

At  that  moment,  however,  the  Sailor  was  far  too  deep 
in  Chapter  Eighteen  to  attend  to  the  charlady.  His  total 
lack  of  interest  sent  her  in  a  huff  to  the  back  kitchen.  Yet 
she  was  not  cast  down  altogether.  He  was  more  of  a  half- 
bake  than  she  had  guessed,  that  was  all. 


VII 


NEXT  morning  a  lady  walked   into  the  shop.     She 
was  tall  and  stout,  beaming  and  fashionable.     The 
first  detail  of  a  striking,  even  resplendent  person- 
ality which  caught   the  young  man's  eye  was  her   boots. 
These  wrere  long,  narrow,  perilously  high  in  the  heel,  they 
had  black  and  white  checked  uppers,  and  a  pair  of  fat  feet 
had  been  buttoned  into  them. 

"I  want  'Etiquette  for  Ladies/  please.  It's  in  the  window. 
A  shilling.  Yellow  cover." 

It  was  not  the  voice  the  young  man  had  heard  in  Hyde 
Park,  nor  was  it  the  voice  of  Miss  Foldal ;  on  the  contrary, 
it  was  direct,  searching,  rather  aggressive  in  quality.  There 
was  ease  and  confidence  in  it,  there  was  humor  and  archness. 
It  was  a  voice  of  hyper-refinement,  of  Miss  Foldal  receiving 
company,  raised  to  a  higher,  more  dominant  power. 

"Yes,  that's  the  one.  By  a  Member  of  the  Aristocracy. 
Ait  least  it  says  it  is.  And  if  it  isn't,  I  get  my  money  back, 
Jon't  I?" 

The  flash  of  teeth  and  the  smile  that  followed  startled 
the  young  man  considerably.  He  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his 
hair.  This  was  a  new  kind  of  lady  altogether  and  he  didn't 
know  in  the  least  how  he  was  going  to  cope  with  her. 

"Thanks  very  much."  Elegantly  the  sum  of  one  shilling 
was  disbursed  from  a  very  smart  reticule. 

That,  however,  was  not  the  conclusion  of  the  incident. 
234 


THE  SAILOR 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  lady,  "but  you  are  Mr.  Harper, 
aren't  you?" 

Blushing  again  he  admitted  very  humbly  that  he  was. 

"Yes,  you  look  clever.  I'm  Cora  Dobbs.  You  know 
Auntie,  I  think." 

With  a  blush  deepening  to  a  hue  that  was  quite  nice  the 
young  man  said  he  knew  Miss  Dobbs'  aunt. 

"She's  a  rum  one,  isn't  she?"  The  sudden  friendliness 
was  overpowering. 

The  young  man,  not  knowing  what  to  say,  said  nothing. 
Thus  far  he  had  been  on  the  high  seas  with  Dick  Smith 
and  the  brigantine  Excelsior,  but  he  was  quickly  coming  to 
dry  land,  to  London,  to  the  Charing  Cross  Road.  So  this 
was  the  niece  of  whom  Mrs.  Greaves  thought  so  much. 
Henry  Harper  could  understand  the  charlady's  pride  in  her, 
but  it  was  very  surprising  that  she  should  be  the  niece  of 
Mrs.  Greaves.  She  was  something  totally  different.  In 
manner  she  was  even  more  refined  than  Miss  Foldal  herself, 
although  in  some  ways  she  had  a  slight  resemblance  to  his 
good  fairy.  But  Miss  Dobbs  had  a  candor,  a  humor  and  a 
charm  quite  new  in  Henry  Harper's  very  limited  social  ex- 
perience. She  was  really  most  agreeable;  also  her  clothes, 
if  not  exactly  Hyde  Park,  were  so  fine  that  they  must  have 
cost  a  great  deal  of  money. 

So  much  for  Miss  Dobbs  in  the  sight  of  Mr.  Harper.  As 
for  Mr.  Harper  in  the  sight  of  Miss  Dobbs,  that  was  a 
very-different  matter.  He  was  not  bad  looking;  he  was  tall, 
well-made,  clean,  his  eyes  were  good.  But  their  queer  ex- 
pression could  only  mean  that  he  was  as  weak  as  water 
and  as  green  as  grass.  Evidently  he  hardly  knew  he  had 
come  on  to  the  earth.  Also  he  was  as  shy  as  a  baby  and  his 
trousers  wanted  ironing  badly. 

"I  have  heard  quite  a  lot  about  you,  Mr.  Harper,  from 
my  aunt." 

16  235 


THE  SAILOR 

It  was  a  little  surprising  that  a  creature  so  fashionable 
should  own  an  aunt  so  much  the  reverse.  Even  Mr.  Harper, 
who  tad  hardly  begun  to  get  a  sense  of  perspective,  felt 
the  two  ladies  were  as  wide  asunder  as  the  poles.  Not 
"jf  course  that  Mrs.  Greaves  was  an  "ordinary"  char,  he  had 
her  own  assurance  of  that.  She  was  a  kind  of  super- 
charlady  who  "did"  for  barristers  and  professional  gentle- 
men, cooked  their  meals,  supervised  their  bachelor  establish- 
ments, and  allowed  them  to  share  her  pride  in  a  distinguished 
niece. 

Had  Mr.  Harper  been  a  more  sophisticated  young  man 
he  must  have  felt  the  attitude  of  the  niece  to  be  admirable. 
There  was  not  a  shade  of  false  shame  when  she  spoke  of  her 
aunt.  Miss  Cora  Dobbs  was  too  frankly  of  the  world  to 
suffer  any  vicarious  embarrassment.  She  was  amused  with  a 
relationship  thrust  upon  her  by  an  ironical  providence,  and 
that  was  all. 

"I  hear  you  are  writing  a  book." 

That  was  a  false  move.  Mr.  Harper  was  only  able  to 
blush  vividly  and  to  make  a  kind  of  noise  at  the  back  of  his 
throat. 

"I  have  a  great  friend  who  is  writing  one."  Miss  Dobbs 
hastened  to  repair  a  tactical  mistake.  "Hers  is  reminiscences. 
I  am  helping  with  a  few  of  mine.  I  dare  say  Auntie  has  told 
you  I  have  been  on  the  stage?" 

Mr.  Harper  had  been  told  that. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  a  good  idea?  My  friend  gives  her 
name  because  she  married  a  lord,  but  I'm  to  do  the  donkey- 
work.  It  would  be  telling  if  I  told  you  her  name,  but  don't 
you  think  it's  business?" 

Mr.  Harper  thought,  not  very  audibly,  that  it  was. 

"One  of  our  girls  at  the  Friv.,  Cassie  Smallpiece,  who 
married  Lord  Bargrave,  you  know  .  .  ." 

.  .  .  Mr.  Harper  did  not  know,  but  Miss  Dobbs  had 
236 


THE  SAILOR 

already  struck  such  a  note  of  intimacy  that  he  somehow  felt 
he  ought  to  have  known.  .  .  . 

"...  Made  quite  a  pot  of  money  out  of  hers.  Of  course 
there  was  scandal  in  Cassie's.  Cassie  was  rather  warm  pas- 
try. But  there'll  be  none  in  ours,  although  I  expect  that'll 
be  money  out  of  our  pockets." 

Mr.  Harper  hoped  such  would  not  be  the  case. 

"Bound  to  be,"  said  Miss  Dobbs.  "That's  the  worst  of 
being  a  clean  potato,  you  are  always  missing  your  share  of 
the  cake." 

Mr.  Harper  was  completely  out  of  his  depth.  He  had  no 
reply  to  make  to  this  very  advanced  remark. 

Miss  Dobbs  watched  his  perplexed  face  with  a  narrow- 
lidded  wariness,  behind  which  glittered  the  eyes  of  a  goshawk. 
But  she  was  too  wise  to  force  the  pace  unduly.  With  a 
suddenness  that  was  almost  startling,  she  said,  "Well,  ching- 
a-ling.  I'll  look  in  again  when  you  are  not  so  busy,  Mr. 
Harper.  One  of  these  days  perhaps  you  will  give  me  advice 
about  my  reminiscences."  And  with  a  smile  and  a  wave 
of  her  muff  of  excruciating  friendliness,  Miss  Cora  Dobbs 
gave  a  trip  and  a  waddle,  and  the  high  heels  and  the  black 
and  white  check  uppers  were  on  the  pavement  of  the  Char- 
ing Cross  Road. 

For  at  least  three  minutes,  however,  after  they  had  gone, 
Dick  Smith  and  the  brigantine  Excelsior  were  left  in  a  state 
of  suspended  animation.  The  author  had  to  make  a  great 
effort  before  he  could  proceed  with  Chapter  Eighteen.  A 
glamour  had  passed  from  the  earth ;  at  least  from  that  part 
of  the  earth  contained  by  the  four  walls  of  No.  249,  Charing 
Cross  Road. 


237 


THE  SAILOR 


VIII 

MISS  CORA  DOBBS  was  as  good  as  her  word.  She 
looked  in  again ;  indeed  she  formed  quite  a  habit  of 
looking  into  the  shop  of  Elihu  Rudge,  bookseller, 
whenever  she  was  passing.  This  seemed  to  work  out  on  an 
average  at  one  morning  a  week.  Her  reminiscences  could 
hardly  have  induced  this  friendliness  because,  strange  to  say, 
she  never  mentioned  them  again. 

On  a  first  consideration,  it  seemed  more  likely  due  to  her 
deep  interest  in  the  book  Mr.  Harper  was  writing,  of  which 
her  aunt  had  told  her.  Whenever  Miss  Dobbs  looked  in 
she  never  failed  to  ask,  "How  is  it  going  today?"  and  she 
declared  she  would  not  be  satisfied  until  a  chapter  had  been 
read  to  her. 

Mr.  Harper  was  rather  embarrassed  by  the  attentions 
af  Miss  Dobbs.  He  was  a  very  shy  young  man,  and  in  re- 
gard to  his  new  and  strange  and  sometimes  extremely  painful 
labors  he  was  unreasonably  silent.  But  so  determined  was 
the  interest  of  Miss  Dobbs  that  in  the  end  Mr.  Harper 
yielded  to  its  pressure.  At  last  he  let  her  see  the  manuscript. 
But  even  that  did  not  content  her.  She  was  set,  it  seemed, 
on  having  some  of  the  choicest  passages  read  aloud  by  the  au- 
thor when  there  was  no  one  in  the  shop. 

In  a  way  the  determination  of  Miss  Dobbs  was  rather  a 
thorn.  Yet  it  would  have  been  idle  and  ungracious  for  Mr. 
Harper  to  pretend  that  he  was  not  flattered  by  this  remark- 
able solicitude  for  the  story  of  Dick  Smith  and  the  brigantine 
Excelsior.  He  was  very  flattered  indeed.  For  one  thing, 
Miss  Dobbs  was  Miss  Dobbs  in  a  way  that  Miss  Foldal  had 
never  been  Miss  Foldal.  She  was  a  force  in  the  way  that 
Ginger  was;  her  elegance  was  positive,  it  meant  something. 
She  had  a  subtle  air  of  "being  out  for  blood,"  just  as  Ginger 
238 


THE  SAILOR 

had  when  they  had  paid  their  first  never-to-be-forgotten  visit 
to  Blackhampton.  Deep  in  his  heart  the  Sailor  was  a  little 
afraid  of  Miss  Cora  Dobbs.  Yet  he  did  not  know  why  he 
should  be.  She  was  extraordinarily  agreeable.  No  one  could 
have  been  pleasanter  to  talk  to;  she  was  by  far  the  wittiest 
and  most  amusing  lady  he  had  ever  met;  it  was  impossible 
not  to  like  her  immensely;  but  already  a  subtle  instinct  told 
him  to  beware. 

As  for  Miss  Dobbs,  her  state  of  mind  would  be  difficult  to 
render.  Just  as  Mr.  Harper  was  very  simple,  Miss  Dobbs 
was  extremely  complex.  In  the  first  place,  there  seemed  no 
particular  reason  why  she  should  have  come  into  the  shop 
at  all.  It  may  have  been  curiosity.  Perhaps  her  aunt  had 
aroused  it  by  the  statement  that  Mr.  Rudge  had  "set  up  a 
nice-looking  boy  as  wrote  books,"  and  it  may  have  been  that 
the  bearing  of  the  nice-looking  boy  gave  warrant  for  a  con- 
tinuance of  Miss  Dobbs'  friendly  regard. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  may  have  been  the  nature  of  Mr. 
Harper's  calling  which  inspired  these  punctual  attentions. 
It  certainly  had  possibilities.  Among  the  friends  of  Miss 
Dobbs  was  a  certain  Mr.  Albert  Hobson  who  was  reputed  to 
earn  several  thousands  a  year  by  his  pen.  Again,  it  may  have 
been  the  statement  of  her  aunt  that  the  young  man  "had 
follered  the  sea  and  had  a  nest-egg  put  by."  Or  again  it  may 
have  been  the  young  man  himself  who  appealed  to  her.  His 
clean  simplicity  of  mind  and  of  mansion  may  have  had  a 
morbid  attraction  for  a  complexity  that  was  pathological. 
Of  these  hypotheses  the  last  may  seem  least  probable,  but 
the  motives  of  a  Miss  Cora  Dobbs  defy  analysis;  and  in  a 
world  in  which  nothing  is  absolute  she  is  perhaps  entitled  to 
the  benefit  of  any  doubt  that  may  arise  concerning  them. 

In  spite  of  Miss  Dobbs,  whose  attentions  for  the  present 
were  confined  to  a  few  minutes  one  morning  a  week,  the 
story  of  Dick  Smith  began  to  make  excellent  progress.  All 
239 


THE  SAILOR 

the  same  it  was  uphill  work.  The  Sailor  was  a  very  clumsy 
craftsman  using  the  queerest  of  tools,  but  oddly  enough  he 
had  a  remarkable  faculty  of  concentration. 

At  last  came  the  day  when  the  final  chapter  was  written. 
And  a  proud  day  it  was.  In  spite  of  many  defeats  and  mis- 
givings, he  was  able  at  three  o'clock  of  a  summer  morning 
to  write  the  magic  words,  "The  End."  Yet  it  was  far  from 
being  the  end  of  his  labors.  He  little  knew  that  he  had 
merely  come  to  Mount  Pisgah,  and  that  for  many  days  he 
must  be  content  with  no  more  than  a  glimpse  of  the  Promised 
Land. 

In  telling  the  story  of  his  early  years  the  Sailor  had  no 
particular  object  in  view.  Certain  mysterious  forces  were 
craving  expression.  Such  a  task  had  not  been  undertaken  at 
the  call  of  ambition.  But  now  it  was  done  ambition  found  a 
part  to  play. 

On  the  very  morning  the  story  was  finished,  by  an  odd 
chance  Miss  Dobbs  came  into  the  shop.  In  answer  to  her 
invariable,  "Well,  what  of  it?"  she  was  gravely  informed 
that  the  end  had  been  reached. 

"My !  you've  been  going  some,  Mr.  R.  L.  Stevenson.  Run 
along  and  fetch  the  last  chapter  and  read  it  to  me  and 
then  I'll  tell  you  honestly  whether  I  think  it's  as  good  as  Bert 
Hobson." 

Miss  Dobbs  had  the  habit  of  command.  Therefore  Chap- 
ter the  Last,  telling  of  the  hero's  miraculous  deliverance  from 
the  Island  of  San  Pedro,  was  at  once  produced.  Moreover, 
it  was  read  to  her  with  naif  sincerity  in  a  gentle  voice. 

"Hot  stuff!"  Miss  Dobbs  dexterously  concealed  a  yawn 
with  a  dingy  white  glove.  "It's  It." 

The  author  blushed  with  pleasure,  although  he  could 
hardly  believe  the  story  was  as  good  as  all  that. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  now  you've  writ- 
ten it?" 

240 


THE  SAILOR 

To  her  Intense  surprise  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  do 
anything  with  it. 

"Oh,  but  that's  potty.  That's  merely  potty.  Of  course 
you  are  going  to  bring  it  out  as  a  book." 

The  author  had  not  thought  of  doing  so. 

"Anyhow,  it  is  just  the  thing  for  a  magazine." 

Even  a  magazine  had  not  entered  his  mind. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it,  then?"  demanded 
Miss  Dobbs,  with  growing  incredulity. 

This  was  a  question  Mr.  Harper  was  unable  to  answer. 

"You  are  going  to  do  nothing  with  it?"  gasped  Miss 
Dobbs. 

"No." 

'But  it's  'some'  story,  I  assure  you  it  is.  If  you  send 
it  to  the  Rotunda  or  the  Covent  Garden  it  may  mean  big 
money." 

Quite  absurdly  the  financial  aspect  had  not  presented  itself. 

"Well,  you're  potty,"  said  Miss  Dobbs,  with  despondency. 
"Don't  you  know  that  Bert  Hobson,  who  writes  those  stories 
for  the  Rotunda,  makes  his  thousands  a  year?" 

Mr.  Harper,  who  had  never  heard  of  Bert  Hobson  or  of 
the  Rotunda,  seemed  greatly  surprised. 

"Why,  you  are  as  green  as  green,"  said  Miss  Dobbs  re- 
proachfully, "It's  such  a  nugget  of  thrills,  you  ought  to 
see  that  it  gets  published.  You  ought  really." 

But  in  spite  of  her  conviction  it  was  some  time  before  he 
felt  abk  to  take  her  advice.  Such  unpractical  reluctance  on 
the  part  of  genius  gave  her  pain.  It  seemed  to  lower  its  value. 
He  must  be  a  genius  to  have  written  a  book,  but  it  was  a 
great  pity  that  he  should  confirm  the  world's  estimate  of 
genius  by  behaving  like  one. 

Why  had  he  taken  so  much  trouble  if  he  was  not  going 
to  get  a  nice  fat  check  out  of  it? 

He  had  written  it  because  he  felt  he  must. 
241 


THE  SAILOR 

It's  a  very  sloppy  reason,  was  the  unexpressed  opinion  of 
Miss  Dobbs. 

After  such  a  hopeless  admission  on  the  part  of  the  young 
man  with  the  queer  eyes,  Miss  Dobbs  felt  so  hurt  that  she 
did  not  appear  in  the  shop  for  three  weeks.  And  when  at 
last  she  came  again,  she  learned  that  the  story  of  Dick  Srnitfi 
and  the  brigantine  Excelsior  was  still  in  its  drawer  and  had 
yet  to  be  seen  by  anyone. 

"You  beat  Banagher,"  said  Miss  Dobbs.  And  then  she 
suddenly  exclaimed,  "Look  here,  Mr.  Harper,  give  me  that 
story  and  I'll  send  it  myself  to  the  Rotunda" 

Very  gently  and  politely,  but  quite  firmly,  Mr.  Harper 
declined  to  do  so.  But  in  order  to  appease  Miss  Dobbs,  who 
was  inclined  to  make  this  refusal  a  personal  matter,  he  sol- 
emnly promised  that  he  would  send  it  to  the  Rotunda  him- 
self, or  some  other  magazine. 

Henry  Harper  took  a  sudden  resolve  that  night  to  send  the 
story  to  the  home  of  its  only  true  begetter,  Brown's  Maga- 
zine. Why  he  chose  that  periodical  in  preference  to  the  Ro- 
tunda was  more  than  he  could  say.  It  may  have  been  a 
feeling  of  reverence  for  the  dilapidated  Volume  CXLI  with 
part  of  the  July  number  missing.  Some  high  instinct  may- 
have  been  at  work  since  the  gods  must  have  some  kind  of 
machinery  to  help  them  in  these  matters.  At  least  the  ma- 
terial fact  was  beyond  dispute.  He  packed  the  story  that 
evening  in  neat  brown  paper,  and  before  taking  down  the 
shutters  of  the  shop  the  next  morning,  went  out  and  posted 
it,  although  sure  in  his  own  mind  that  he  was  guilty  of  a 
foolish  proceeding. 

Still,  there  was  a  lady  in  the  case.  But  when  in  the  course 
of  the  following  day  Miss  Dobbs  looked  in  again,  by  some 
odd  perversity  she  was  inclined  to  share  this  view  to  the  full. 
She  had  never  heard  of  Brown's  Magazine.  The  Rotunda 
and  the  Covent  Garden  were  her  stand-bys.  She  never  read 
242 


THE  SAILOR 

anything  else.  But  she  dared  say  that  Brown's  money  would 
be  as  good  as  other  people's,  although  Brown  s  Magazine 
certainly  would  not  have  the  circulation  of  the  Rotunda. 

Several  weeks  passed.  Miss  Dobbs  looked  in  now  and 
again  to  ask  if  Mr.  Harper  had  "had  any  luck."  To  this 
inquiry  one  invariable  answer  was  given,  and  after  a  time 
Miss  Dobbs  seemed  to  lose  something  of  her  faith.  Her 
interest  in  the  story  of  Dick  Smith  and  in  Mr.  Harper  him- 
self began  to  wane.  She  had  said  from  the  first  that  Brown  s 
was  a  mistake.  It  should  have  been  the  Rotunda  or  nothing. 
Miss  Dobbs  was  a  firm  believer  in  beginning  at  the  top ;  in 
her  opinion  it  was  easier  to  come  down  than  it  was  to  go 
up. 

When  the  fourth  week  of  silence  on  the  part  of  Brown  s 
Magazine  had  been  entered  upon,  she  suggested  that  Mr. 
Harper  should  stir  them  up  a  bit.  With  surprising  incon- 
sequence he  asked  for  one  more  week  of  grace.  For  his  own 
part,  he  could  not  help  thinking  it  was  a  good  sign.  Miss 
Dobbs  did  not  share  his  view.  Brown  s  had  either  mislaid 
the  manuscript,  they  had  not  received  it,  or  they  had  de- 
stroyed it;  and  in  a  state  verging  upon  sarcasm  she  withdrew 
from  the  shop  with  the  final  and  crushing  remark,  "that  Mr. 
Harper  was  a  rum  one,  and  she  doubted  very  much  whether 
he  would  ever  make  good." 

However,  Miss  Dobbs,  in  spite  of  her  knowledge  of  the 
world,  had  to  admit,  a  week  later,  that  Mr.  Harper  knew 
more" about  Browns  Magazine  than  she  did.  For  when 
she  looked  in  on  the  morning  of  Saturday  to  inquire  for 
news  of  the  ill-fated  Dick  Smith  she  was  met  triumphantly 
with  a  letter  which  had  come  by  the  last  post  the  previous 
evening. 

With  quite  a  thrill  she  took  the  letter  out  of  its  neatly 
embossed  envelope  and  made  an  attempt  to  read  the  fol- 
lowing : 

243 


THE  SAILOR 

I2B,  Pall  Mall, 

September  2. 
DEAR  SIR, 

Your  story  has  now  been  read  twice,  and  the  conclusion 
very  reluctantly  come  to  by  the  writer  is  that  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  use  it  in  Brown's  Magazine  in  its  present  form. 
It  bears  many  marks  of  inexperience,  but  at  the  same  time 
it  has  such  a  strikingly  original  quality  that  the  writer  would 
be  very  glad  to  have  a  talk  with  you  about  it.  In  the  mean- 
time the  MS  is  being  returned  to  you. 
Yours  very  truly, 

EDWARD  AMBROSE. 

"I  don't  call  that  writing,"  said  Miss  Dobbs,  who  had 
been  utterly  defeated  by  the  hand  of  the  editor  of  Brown's 
Magazine.  "It  is  just  a  fly  walking  across  the  paper  without 
having  wiped  its  feet.  Read  it  to  me,  Mr.  Harper." 

Mr.  Harper,  who  had  spent  nearly  an  hour  the  previous 
evening  in  making  out  the  letter,  and  now  knew  it  by  heart, 
enforced  her  respect  by  reading  it  aloud  as  if  it  had  been 
nothing  out  of  the  common. 

"Marks  of  inexperience!"  was  her  comment.  "Like  his 
impudence.  I  wonder  who  he  thinks  he  is.  You  take  my 
advice,  Mr.  Harper,  and  send  it  to  the  Covent  Garden.  See 
what  they've  got  to  say  about  it." 

However,  before  taking  that  course,  Henry  Harper  felt  it 
would  be  the  part  of  wisdom  to  get  in  touch  with  the  real  live 
editor  who  had  expressed  a  wish  to  see  him.  Besides,  there 
had  been  something  in  the  letter  signed  "Edward  Ambrose" 
which  had  set  a  chord  vibrating  in  his  heart. 


244 


THE  SAILOR 


IX 


IN  order  to  pay  a  visit  to  I2B,  Pall  Mall,  Henry  Harper 
had  to  ask  for  leave.  This  was  readily  granted  by  his 
master,  who  was  even  more  impressed  by  the  letter 
from  the  editor  of  Brown  s  Magazine  than  was  its  recipient. 

As  became  one  who  had  a  practical  acquaintance  with 
editors  and  publishers,  Mr.  Rudge  knew  that  for  more  than  a 
century  Brown  s  Magazine  had  been  a  Mecca  of  the  man 
'  of  letters.  Great  names  were  enshrined  in  its  history.  These 
began  with  Byron  and  Scott,  and  flowed  through  the  Vic- 
torian epoch  to  the  most  gifted  and  representative  minds  of 
the  present.  Mr.  Ambrose  himself  was  a  critic  of  some  celeb- 
rity; moreover,  Brown's  Magazine  was  still  half  a  crown  a 
month  as  it  always  had  been,  so  that  even  its  subscribers  had 
a  sense  of  exclusiveness. 

Henry  Harper  was  so  shy  that  when  the  hour  came  for 
him  to  set  forth  to  I2B,  Pall  Mall,  his  one  desire  was  to  take 
the  advice  of  Miss  Dobbs  and  not  pay  his  visit  at  all.  But 
Mr.  Rudge  was  adamant.  Henry  must  go  to  Pall  Mall  if 
only  for  the  sake  of  the  firm.  Just  as  the  young  man  was 
about  to  set  out,  his  master  emphasized  the  immense  impor- 
tance of  the  matter  by  appearing  on  the  scene,  clothes  brush 
in  hand,  in  order  to  give  a  final  touch  to  his  toilet.  No  dis- 
credit must  be  done  to  249,  Charing  Cross  Road.  An  unprec- 
edented honor  had  been  conferred  upon  it. 

The  reception  of  Mr.  Harper  in  Pall  Mall  was  of  a  kind 
to  impress  a  sensitive  young  man  of  high  aspiration  and  very 
limited  opportunity.  To  begin  with,  Pall  Mall  is  Pall  Mall, 
and  No.  I2B  in  every  chaste  external  was  entirely  worthy 
of  its  local  habitation.  After  a  much  bemedaled  commis- 
sionaire of  incredibly  distinguished  aspect  had  ushered  the 
young  man  into  the  front  office,  he  was  received  by  a  grave 
245 


THE  SAILOR 

and  reverend  signior  in  a  frock  coat  who  Mr.  Harper  in- 
stinctively felt  was  the  editor  himself.  Such,  however,  was 
not  the  case.  The  grave  and  reverend  one  was  a  trusted 
member  of  the  staff,  whose  duty  it  was  to  usher  contributors 
into  the  Presence,  and  in  the  meantime,  if  delay  arose,  to 
arrange  for  their  well-being. 

Before  Mr.  Harper  could  be  received,  he  spent  some  ter- 
rible minutes  in  a  tiny  waiting-room,  in  which  he  felt  he  was 
being  asphyxiated.  During  that  time  it  was  borne  in  upon 
him  that  he  would  not  be  equal  to  the  ordeal  ahead.  Every 
minute  he  grew  more  nervous.  He  could  never  face  it,  he  was 
sure.  Far  better  to  have  taken  the  advice  of  the  wise  Miss 
Dobbs,  and  have  been  content  with  the  Covent  Garden. 

Before  the  fateful  moment  came  he  was  in  a  state  of 
despair.  Why  he  should  have  been  was  impossible  to  say. 
What  was  Pall  Mall  in  comparison  with  the  forecastle  or  the 
futtock  shrouds  of  the  Margaret  Carey?  What  were  the 
commissionaire  and  the  frock-coated  gentleman  in  comparison 
with  Mr.  Thompson  and  the  Old  Man  ?  Yet  he  came  within 
an  ace  of  flying  out  of  that  waiting-room  into  the  street. 

The  cicerone  reappeared,  led  the  young  man  up  a  flight  of 
stairs,  opened  a  door,  and  announced,  "Mr.  Harper." 

Seated  at  a  writing  table  in  a  bay  of  the  large,  airy,  well- 
appointed  room,  was  a  gravely  genial  man,  whose  face  had 
that  subtle  look  of  power  which  springs  from  the  play  of 
mind. 

He  rose  at  once  and  offered  a  welcome  of  such  unstudied 
cordiality  that  Henry  Harper  forgot  that  he  had  ever  been 
afraid  of  him.  The  editor  of  Brown  s  Magazine  placed  a 
chair  for  the  young  man  and  asked  him  to  sit  down.  He 
then  returned  to  his  writing  table,  leaned  back  in  his  own 
chair,  and  half  turned  to  face  his  visitor. 

"Your  story  interested  me  enormously."  The  editor 
studied  very  closely  the  young  man  opposite  without  appear- 
246 


THE  SAILOR 

ing  to  do  so ;  and  then  he  said,  in  a  slightly  changed  tone,  as 
if  a  theory  previously  formed  had  been  confirmed,  "I  am  sure 
wu  have  had  experience  of  the  sea." 

The  Sailor  knew  already  that  he  was  going  to  like  Mr. 
Ambrose  immensely.  In  a  subtle  way  he  was  reminded  of 
Klondyke,  and  more  remotely  of  Mr.  Horrobin,  but  yet  he 
felt  that  Mr.  Ambrose  was  not  really  like  them  at  all. 

As  for  Edward  Ambrose,  he  had  at  once  fixed  in  his  mind 
a  picture  of  great  simplicity,  of  eager  intensity,  of  an  earnest- 
ness pathetic  and  nai'f.  Strange  to  say,  it  was  almost  exactly 
the  one  he  had  been  able  to  envisage  beforehand.  If  ever  a 
human  document  had  ascended  to  the  first  floor  of  I2B,  Pall 
Mall,  it  was  here  before  his  eyes. 

The  Sailor  began  presently  to  forget  his  shyness  in  a 
surprising  way.  Mr.  Ambrose  differed  from  Mr.  Horrobin 
inasmuch  that  he  was  ready,  even  anxious,  to  listen.  He 
seemed  quite  eager  that  the  Sailor  should  speak  about  himself. 
The  story  had  interested  him  very  much.  He  felt  its  power, 
and  saw  great  possibilities  for  a  talent,  immature  as  it  was, 
which  could  declare  itself  in  a  shape  so  definite. 

After  a  while  the  Sailor  talked  with  less  reserve  than  per- 
haps he  ought  to  have  done.  But  such  a  man  was  very  hard 
to  resist — impossible  for  certain  natures.  He  had  a  faculty 
of  perception  that  was  very  rare,  he  was  amazingly  quick  to 
see  and  to  appreciate ;  and  with  this  curious  power  of  realizing 
all  that  was  worthy  there  was  a  knack  of  overlooking,  of 
perhaps  even  blinding  himself,  to  things  less  pleasing. 

The  Sailor's  speech,  queer  and  semi-literate  as  it  was, 
exactly  resembled  his  writing.  Here  was  something  rare  and 
strange.  The  shy  earnestness  of  the  voice,  the  neat  serge 
suit,  well  tended  but  of  poor  quality,  the  general  air  of  clean 
simplicity  without  and  within ;  above  all,  the  haunted  eyes 
of  this  deep-sea  mariner,  which  had  seen  so  much  more  than 
they  would  ever  be  able  to  tell,  fixed  towards  a  goal  they 
247 


THE  SAILOR 

could  never  hope  to  attain,  were  much  as  Edward  Ambrose 
had  pictured  them. 

"I  want  to  use  your  story,"  said  the  editor;  "but  please 
don't  be  offended  by  what  I  am  going  to  say." 

The  look  in  the  face  of  the  Sailor  showed  it  would  be  quite 
impossible  for  Mr.  Ambrose  to  offend  him. 

"There  are  little  things,  certain  rules  that  have  to  be 
learned  before  even  Genius  itself  can  be  given  a  hearing. 
And  it  is  vital  to  master  them.  But  you  are  so  far  on  the 
road,  that  in  a  short  time,  if  you  care  to  go  on,  I  am  convinced 
you  will  have  all  the  tricks  of  a  craft  which  too  often  begins 
and  ends  in  trickery  and  once  in  a  lustrum  rises  to  po\ver.  At 
least  that's  my  experience."  And  Mr.  Ambrose  laughed  with 
charming  friendliness. 

"Now,"  he  went  on,  "I  will  let  you  into  a  secret  that  all 
the  world  knows.  We  declined  Treasure  Island.  Not  in  my 
time,  I  am  glad  to  say,  but  Brown's  Magazine  declined  it. 
The  story  is  told  against  us;  and  if  we  can  we  want  to  wipe 
the  blot  off  our  escutcheon.  And  I  feel,  Mr.  Harper,  that  if 
you  will  learn  the  rules  of  the  game  and  not  lose  yourself, 
one  day  you  will  help  us  to  do  so." 

It  took  the  editor  some  time  to  explain  what  he  meant. 
But  he  did  so  at  considerable  length  and  with  \vonderful 
lucidity.  The  personality  of  this  young  man  appealed  to 
him.  And  he  felt  that  the  author  of  Dick  Smith  had  had  an 
almost  superhuman  task  laid  upon  him.  Here  was  a  competi- 
tor in  the  Olympian  games  starting  from  a  mark  so  far 
behind  his  peers  that  by  all  the  laws  he  was  out  of  the  race 
before  he  started  to  run  it.  But  was  he  ?  Somehow  Edward 
Ambrose  felt  that  if  this  dauntless  spirit,  already  many  times 
defeated,  but  never  completely  overthrown,  could  find  the 
courage  to  go  on,  the  world  would  have  cause  one  day  to  con- 
gratulate Brown's  Magazine. 

The  editor  took  a  cordial  leave  of  his  strange  visitor, 
248 


THE  SAILOR 

"Keep  on  keeping  on,  and  see  what  comes  of  it.  Don't  be 
afraid  to  use  the  knife,  but  be  careful  not  to  cut  yourself. 
That's  the  particular  form  of  the  eternal  paradox  assumed  by 
the  absolute  for  the  overthrow  of  the  writing  man!  It's  a 
riddle  each  must  read  in  his  own  way.  But  instinct  is  the 
master  key.  Trust  it  as  you  have  done  already,  and  it  will 
unlock  every  door.  However,  we  will  talk  of  that  another 
time.  But  you  might  bear  in  mind  what  a  great  writer  said 
to  me  here  in  this  room  only  last  week.  'When  you  feel  any- 
thing you  may  have  written  is  really  fine  it  is  a  golden  rule  to 
leave  it  out.'  Clear  away  a  few  of  the  trees,  and  then 
we  may  begin  to  see  the  wood.  But  this  doesn't  apply 
to  the  Island  of  San  Pedro.  Not  a  word  of  that  can  be 
spared." 

The  Sailor  walked  on  air  as  far  as  the  National  Gallery. 
But  as  he  turned  the  corner  into  Charing  Cross  Road  he  was 
brought  to  earth  by  a  violent  collision  with  an  elderly  gentle- 
man. He  was  not  brought  literally  to  earth  because  he  suf- 
fered less  than  his  victim. 

Before  the  elderly  gentleman  had  ceased  to  blaspheme 
the  young  man  came  within  an  ace  of  an  even  more  emphatic 
reminder  of  earth's  realities :  at  the  end  of  Cranbourn  Street 
an  omnibus  nearly  ran  over  him.  Still,  it  is  the  part  of  char- 
ity to  cover  his  sins,  because  up  till  then,  Tuesday,  September 
the  fifth  had  been  the  day  of  his  life. 


THIS  mood  did  not  last  very  long.     He  was  now  up 
against  the  stern  facts  of  authorship.    The  story  of 
Dick  Smith  would  have  to  be  written  again  and 
written  differently.     In  the  reincarnation  would  be  little  of 
the  creative  rapture  of  the  primal  birth.    And  so  little  faith 
249 


THE  SAILOR 

had  the  Sailor  in  his  powers  that  he  could  not  help  feeling 
that  too  much  had  been  asked  of  them. 

To  add  to  his  doubts,  he  was  beset  by  conflicting  advice. 
Miss  Dobbs  was  quite  angry  when  she  learned  the  result  of 
the  interview  with  Mr.  Ambrose,  whichtshe'did  the  day  after 
it  had  taken  place. 

"Wants  you  to  write  it  again,  does  he?"  she  said  with  a 
glow  of  indignation.  "I  call  that  the  limit !  Now,  if  you'll 
be  guided  by  me,  Mr.  Harper,  which,  of  course,  you  ought  to 
have  been  from  the  first,  you'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Send 
it  to  the  Rotunda  or  the  Covent  Garden." 

Miss  Dobbs  was  so  firm  and  Henry  Harper  was  so  op- 
pressed by  the  magnitude  of  his  task,  that  he  came  very  near 
taking  her  advice. 

It  was  the  intervention  of  the  author  of  "A  History  of  the 
World"  in  forty  volumes  with  an  index  that  saved  the  situa- 
tion. Mr.  Rudge  was  horrified  when  he  learned  that  Henry 
Harper  thought  of  trying  his  luck  with  the  Rotunda.  It  was 
nothing  less  than  an  act  of  lese-majeste.  There  could  be  so 
little  ground  of  comparison  between  that  upstart  and  Brown's 
that  in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Rudge  it  was  better  to  be  damned 
by  the  fountain  of  honor,  which  had  published  Byron  and 
Scott,  than  be  accepted  and  even  tricked  out  with  illus- 
trations— there  would  be  no  illustrations  in  the  "History  of 
the  World" — by  a  cheap  and  flashy  parvenu  which  bore  a 
similar  relation  to  literature  to  that  a  toadstool  bore  to 
horticulture. 

Miss  Dobbs  had  force  of  character,  but  she  was  no  match 
for  Mr.  Rudge  when  it  came  to  a  question  of  Brown's  Mag- 
azine v.  the  Rotunda.  He  even  went  to  the  length  of  telling 
her  that  she  didn't  know  what  she  was  talking  about.  The 
grave  spectacled  eyes  of  the  historian  flashed  to  such  purpose 
that  Miss  Dobbs  was  fain  to  admit  "that  she  never  would 
have  thought  the  old  fool  had  it  in  him."  But  great  issues 
250 


THE  SAILOR 

were  at  stake.  All  that  he  stood  for  was  in  the  scale.  Such 
an  affront  should  only  be  offered  to  Culture  over  the  dead 
body  of  the  author  of  the  "History  of  the  World." 

Finally,  Henry  Harper  sat  down  to  rewrite  the  story  of 
Dick  Smith  and  the  brigantine  Excelsior.  As  a  fruit  of 
victory,  Mr.  Rudge  ordained  that  the  young  man  should 
return  to  the  study  of  grammar.  It  was  more  than  ever  nec- 
essary now.  He  was  sure  that  had  he  been  as  well  up  in 
grammar  as  he  ought  to  have  been,  the  question  of  rewriting 
the  story  of  Dick  Smith  could  never  have  arisen. 

These  were  trying  days.  But  the  Sailor  stuck  gallantly 
to  his  guns.  In  spite  of  the  pessimism  of  Miss  Dobbs,  who 
still  looked  in  now  and  again,  he  grappled  with  an  extremely 
difficult  task.  Moreover,  he  did  so  very  thoroughly.  Mr. 
Ambrose  had  given  him  only  general  rules  to  go  by ;  yet  these, 
few  and  succinct  as  they  were,  seemed  to  cut  into  the  woof 
and  fabric  of  his  mind. 

As  the  days  passed,  and  the  end  of  Henry  Harper's  labor 
seemed  farther  off  than  ever,  Miss  Dobbs  grew  more  gloomy, 
but  her  regard  for  his  welfare  was  still  considerable.  He 
might  have  been  grateful  had  it  become  less,  but  he  was 
far  too  chivalrous  to  admit  such  a  thought.  Besides,  it 
was  not  a  little  surprising  that  a  lady  of  the  standing  of 
Miss  Dobbs  should  take  an  interest  in  such  a  person  as 
himself. 

One  day,  she  invited  him  to  tea  at  her  flat.  He  must  come 
tomorrow  afternoon,  to  meet  her  great  friend,  Zoe  Bonser, 
who  was  a  Maison  Perry  girl,  and  very  nice  and  clever.  Had 
there  been  a  way  of  evading  this  point-blank  invitation,  he 
would  certainly  have  sought  it.  Unfortunately  there  was 
not.  Before  issuing  her  invitation  Miss  Dobbs  had  already 
taken  the  precaution  of  asking  casually  whether  "he  was 
doing  anything  Sunday  afternoon?" 

Mr.  Harper  grew  quite  alarmed  as  soon  as  he  realized 
17  2  Si 


THE  SAILOR 

what  he  had  done.  The  mere  thought  of  the  society  of 
promiscuous  ladies,  however  nice  and  clever,  was  enough  to 
frighten  him.  Miss  Dobbs  herself,  who  was  niceness  and 
cleverness  personified,  had  never  really  broken  through  the 
ice.  They  were  old  friends  now,  but  even  she,  with  all  the 
arts  of  which  she  was  mistress,  had  never  been  able  to  pene- 
trate the  reserve  of  this  odd  young  man.  If  he  had  not  been 
incapable  of  deliberately  wounding  the  feelings  of  a  lady  who 
had  shown  him  such  kindness,  he  would  have  boldly  refused 
to  meet  the  nice  and  clever  Miss  Bonser,  which  with  all  his 
soul  he  longed  to  do. 

Therefore,  on  Sunday  afternoon,  he  sadly  abandoned  a 
chapter  of  Dick  Smith,  which  was  now  in  a  tangle  so  hope- 
less that  it  seemed  it  would  never  come  right  After  infinite 
pains  had  made  him  as  presentable  as  a  very  limited  ward- 
robe allowed,  he  went  to  No.  106,  King  John's  Mansions,  the 
whereabouts  of  which  had  already  been  explained  to  him 
very  carefully. 

Miss  Dobbs'  flat  was  right  at  the  top  of  a  very  large,  very 
gloomy,  and  very  draughty  building.  Its  endless  flights  of 
stone  stairs — there  was  no  lift,  although  it  was  clearly  a  case 
for  one — seemed  not  to  have  been  swept  for  a  month  at  least. 
But  this  was  in  keeping  with  a  general  air  of  cheapness  and 
discomfort.  By  the  time  Mr.  Harper  had  climbed  as  far  as 
No.  106,  and  had  knocked  timidly  with  a  decrepit  knocker 
upon  an  uninviting  door,  he  was  in  a  state  of  panic  and 
dejection. 

Miss  Dobbs  opened  the  door  herself.  As  she  stood  on  an 
ungarnished  threshold,  cigarette  in  hand,  flashing  rows  of 
fine  teeth  in  welcome,  the  young  man's  first  thought  was  how 
different  she  looked  without  her  hat.  His  second  thought 
was  that  its  absence  hardly  improved  her.  She  looked  older, 
flatter,  less  mysterious.  Even  the  fluffy  and  peroxidized 
abundance,  which  came  low  on  the  forehead  in  a  quite 
252 


THE  SAILOR 

remarkable  bandeau,  somehow  gave  a  maturity  to  her  appear- 
ance that  he  had  not  in  the  least  expected. 

Miss  Dobbs  had  all  the  arts  of  gracious  hospitality.  She 
took  his  overcoat  and  hat  away  from  him,  and  then  hustled 
him  genially  into  what  she  called  her  "boo-door,"  into  the 
alert  but  extremely  agreeable  presence  of  the  nice  and  clever 
Miss  Bonser. 

Miss  Bonser  was  not  exactly  what  you  would  call  beau- 
tiful, but  she  had  Chick — to  adopt  the  picturesque  language 
of  her  oldest  and  dearest  friend  in  rendering  her  afterwards 
to  Mr.  Henry  Harper.  She  had  the  appearance  of  a  thor- 
oughly good  sort,  except  that  her  eyes  were  so  terribly  wary, 
although  hardly  so  wary  perhaps  as  those  of  her  hostess, 
because  that  would  have  been  impossible.  Still,  there  was 
Chick  and  refinement,  and  above  all,  great  cordiality  in  Miss 
Bonser.  Cordiality,  indeed,  was  the  prevailing  note  of  No. 
1 06,  King  John's  Mansions.  Miss  Dobbs  addressed  Miss 
Bonser  as  "dear,"  Miss  Bonser  addressed  Miss  Dobbs  as 
"dear,"  and  then  Miss  Dobbs  covered  Mr.  Harper  with  con- 
fusion by  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  calling  him  "Harry." 

"Take  a  pew,  Harry,"  said  Miss  Dobbs. 

Mr.  Harper  knew  that  he  alone  was  intended,  because 
no  other  gentleman  was  there.  Nervously  he  sat  down  in 
a  creaking  and  rickety  cane  chair.  The  "Harry"  had  flat- 
tered him  a  goodish  bit,  since  Miss  Dobbs  was  quite  as  much 
a  lady  in  her  home  as  she  was  out  of  it;  also  she  had  for  a 
friend  another  lady,  a  very  nice  and  clever  one,  with  a  refined 
voice,  smart  clothes,  and  a  great  amount  of  jewelry.  She 
had  also  the  air  and  the  manners  of  Society,  of  which  he  had 
learned  in  the  works  of  the  famous  novelist,  W.  M.  Thack- 
eray. The  way  in  which  Miss  Bonser  produced  a  private 
case  and  offered  it  to  him  after  choosing  a  cigarette  for  her- 
self, somehow  reminded  him  of  "Vanity  Fair." 

"Harry  don't  smoke,  do  you,  Harry?"  said  the  hostess, 
253 


THE  SAILOR 

covering  Mr.  Harper's  extreme  confusion  with  rare  tact  and 
spontaneity. 

Miss  Dobbs  then  made  tea,  and  by  the  time  Mr.  Harper 
had  had  two  large  and  cracked  cups  of  a  weak  brew  and  had 
eaten  one  piece  of  buttered  cake,  being  too  shy  to  eat  any- 
thing else  in  spite  of  great  pressure,  he  was  able  to  collect 
himself  a  little. 

"Cora  tells  me  you  are  writing  a  book,  Harry,"  said  Miss 
Bonser  conversationally. 

Mr.  Harper  admitted  this,  although  again  startled  by  the 
Harry. 

"You  don't  mind,  do  you,"  said  Miss  Bonser,  in  answer  to 
his  face.  "  'Mister'  is  so  formal.  I'm  all  for  being  friendly 
and  pleasant  myself.  What  was  I  saying?  Oh,  about  the 
book  you  are  writing.  My  best  boy,  Bert  Hobson,  the 
novelist,  makes  simply  pots  of  money.  He's  got  a  serial 
running  now  in  the  Covent  Garden.  You've  read  it,  I 
daresay." 

It  appeared  that  Mr.  Harper  had  not  read  the  story. 

"Well,  you  ought  reelly."  Mr.  Harper  noticed  that  Miss 
Bonser  pronounced  the  polite  word  "reelly"  exactly  as  Miss 
Foldal  did,  although  a  much  more  fashionable  lady  in  other 
respects  than  the  good  fairy  of  Blackhampton.  "Start  at 
once.  Do  it  now.  It's  Albert's  top  notch."  To  Miss 
Dobbs:  "Don't  you  think  so,  dear?" 

Miss  Dobbs  was  quite  of  Miss  Bonser's  opinion. 

"What's  the  name  of  your  book?"  asked  Miss  Bonser. 

"  'The  Adventures  of  Dick  Smith,'  "  said  Mr.  Harper 
nervously. 

"It's  a  very  good  title,  don't  you  think  so,  dear?" 

Miss  Dobbs  thought  so  too. 

"I  suppose  you'll  dedicate  it  to  Cora,"  said  Miss  Bonser, 
"as  she  has  taken  such  an  interest  in  it." 

Mr.  Harper  had  to  admit  rather  shamefacedly  that  it  had 
254 


THE  SAILOR 

not  occurred  to  him  to  do  that.  Miss  Bonser  was  surprised ; 
but  Miss  Dobbs  said  she  couldn't  think  of  it.  She  didn't  look 
for  a  reward.  Miss  Bonser  said  she  was  sure  of  that,  yet 
Mr.  Harper  felt  very  uncomfortable  because  it  was  borne 
in  upon  him  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  a  sin  of  omission.  An 
awkward  silence  followed,  at  least  so  it  appeared  to  Mr.  Har- 
per, but  it  was  very  tactfully  terminated  by  Miss  Bonser, 
who  suddenly  asked  Miss  Dobbs  about  Harold. 

Harold,  it  seemed,  was  very  keen  on  Miss  Dobbs ;  in  fact, 
he  was  her  best  boy.  He  was  an  architect  who  lived  at 
Wimbledon,  but  had  just  taken  rooms  in  town.  He  was  a 
Cambridge  man,  had  a  commission  in  the  Territorials,  and 
was  a  regular  sport.  However,  this  seemed  to  convey  so 
little  to  Mr.  Harper  that  the  conversation  soon  appeared  to 
languish  in  regard  to  Harold. 

After  this,  the  young  man  sat  very  anxiously  in  the  cane 
chair,  wanting  sorely  to  get  out  of  it,  yet  with  not  enough 
knowledge  of  society  to  be  able  to  do  so.  "The  Adventures 
of  Dick  Smith"  were  calling  him  loudly,  yet  he  had  too  lit- 
tle courage  and  too  much  politeness  to  venture  upon  the 
headlong  flight  which  above  all  things  he  now  desired. 
Presently,  however,  his  air  of  mute  misery  appealed  to  his. 
hostess,  who  suddenly  said  with  great  good  nature.  "Now, 
don't  you  be  staying,  Harry,  a  moment  longer  than  you  think 
you  ought.  I  know  you  want  to  get  back  to  your  writing." 
And  Miss  Dobbs  rose  and  shook  hands  with  him  gravely. 
Miss  Bonser  then  sat  up  in  her  wicker  chair  and  offered 
her  hand  at  a  very  fashionable  angle,  but  said  good-by  with 
real  friendliness,  and  then  Mr.  Harper  made  a  very  awkward 
exit  without  either  self-possession  or  dignity. 

"Chase  me,"  said  Miss  Bonser,  as  soon  as  the  smiling  Miss 
Dobbs  had  returned  from  letting  the  young  man  out  of  the 
front  door. 

255 


THE  SAILOR 

"Priceless,  isn't  he?"  Miss  Dobbs  flung  herself  with  a 
suppressed  giggle  into  a  wicker  chair. 

"Well,  well,"  reflected  Miss  Bonser.  "One  of  these  days 
he  may  be  useful  to  bring  you  in  out  of  the  rain." 

"If  he  begins  to  make  good,"  said  Miss  Dobbs  sagely. 
"You  never  know  your  luck." 

"Cruelty  to  children,  isn't  it?" 

Miss  Dobbs  smiled  thoughtfully.  "Don't  you  think  his 
eyes  are  rather  nice?"  she  said. 

"He's  got  a  lot  in  his  face,"  said  Miss  Bonser.  "That's 
a  face  that's  seen  things.  And  I'm  not  so  sure,  dear,  that  he 
is  such  a  juggins  as  we  fancy." 

"We'll  hope  not  at  any  rate,"  said  Miss  Dobbs  coolly. 

"Still,  I  like  a  man  with  a  punch  in  him  myself." 

"Perhaps  I'll  be  able  to  improve  him  a  bit.  He  hardly 
knows  he's  born  at  present." 

"That's  true,  dear,"  said  Miss  Bonser,  with  a  rather  indis- 
creet gurgle. 

"It's  nothing  to  laugh  at,  Zoe."  To  the  surprise  of  her 
friend,  Miss  Dobbs  seemed  a  little  hurt. 

"Well,  well."  Miss  Bonser  flung  away  the  end  of  her 
cigarette. 

XI 

THE  Adventures  of  Dick  Smith"  continued  to  make 
progress.     Still,   it  was  uphill  work.     But   Henry 
Harper    had    a    tenacity    truly    remarkable — "the 
angelic  patience  of  genius,"  in  the  phrase  of  Balzac.     Not 
that  it  ever  occurred  to  the   Sailor  himself  that  he  was 
a  genius,  or  for  that  matter  to  Mr.  Rudge,  who  did  not 
believe  in  genius;  yet,  a  little  ironically,  Miss  Dobbs  informed 
her  friend  Miss  Bonser  more  than  once  that  she  would  not  be 
surprised  if  he  turned  out  a  bit  of  one. 
256 


THE  SAILOR 

Mr.  Harper's  first  visit  to  King  John's  Mansions  was  not 
his  last.  Miss  Dobbs  saw  to  that.  He  was  so  odd  that  she 
was  tempted  to  ask  herself  whether  this  particular  game  was 
worth  the  candle;  also  her  friends  were  continually  asking 
each  other  a  similar  question  on  her  behalf.  Nevertheless, 
"Harry"  unconsciously  formed  quite  a  habit  of  going  to  tea 
round  the  corner  in  the  Avenue  on  Sunday  afternoons. 

He  was  chaffed  rather  unmercifully  at  times  by  several 
of  the  ladies  he  found  there,  in  particular  by  a  certain  Miss 
Gertie  Press,  by  nature  so  witty  and  sarcastic  that  the  young 
man  was  genuinely  afraid  of  her.  Still,  it  was  a  very  valu- 
able experience  to  have  the  entree  to  this  dashing  circle,  and 
often  when  he  did  not  wish  to  go  he  forced  himself  to  do  so 
by  sheer  power  of  will,  he  had  such  a  strong,  ever-growing 
desire  to  improve  himself  and  to  increase  his  knowledge  of 
the  world. 

Miss  Gertie  Press  was  a  knut.  It  was  about  the  time  that 
portent  was  coming  into  vogue.  She  was  one  of  the  rather 
primitive  kind  to  be  found  in  the  second  row  of  the  Frivolity 
chorus  of  which  she  was  an  ornament.  She  was  extremely 
good-natured,  as  all  these  ladies  seemed  to  be,  at  least  in 
Mr.  Harper's  presence;  but  could  he  have  heard  their  com- 
ments when  he  had  returned  to  his  "masterpiece,"  about 
which  they  were  always  chaffing  him,  he  might  have  held 
other  views.  "Greased  Lightning"  was  Miss  Press's  name 
for  him,  he  was  so  extraordinarily  quick  in  the  uptake! 
"He's  got  the  brains  of  my  boot,"  said  she.  "Your  money 
is  on  the  wrong  horse,  Cora." 

These  ladies  were  really  sorry  for  poor  Cora.  She  must 
be  potty  to  trouble  herself  with  a  thing  like  that.  But  the 
time  came  when  Cora's  friends  began  to  think  differently. 

At  the  end  of  April,  after  nearly  eight  months'  hard  toil, 
in  the  course  of  which  the  "Adventures"  had  been  cut  down 
one  half,  and  the  half  that  remained  had  been  remodeled  and 
257 


THE  SAILOR 

rewritten,  and  then  written  all  over  again,  the  Sailor  packed 
up  the  manuscript,  without  any  particular  emotion  except 
a  vague  one  of  simple  despair,  and  sent  it  to  the  editor  of 
Brown's  Magazine,  from  whom  he  had  not  heard  a  word 
since  September  5. 

Mr.  Rudge,  after  reading  the  revised  version  in  a  very 
conscientious  manner,  thought  the  grammar  decidedly  weak, 
and  felt  the  thing  must  always  suffer  from  being  a  work 
of  the  imagination.  In  his  eyes  nothing  could  soften  that 
cardinal  defect;  but  he  was  a  liberal-minded  man,  and  if 
Brown  s  Magazine  was  really  interested  in  that  sort  of  thing 
— well,  it  was  no  business  of  his  to  decry  it.  There  was  no 
accounting  for  taste  after  all,  and  Browns  was  certainly  the 
best  magazine  of  its  kind  in  existence. 

A  week  passed,  and  then  one  evening  the  replica  of  a 
certain  envelope  which  would  ever  remain  upon  the  tablets 
of  his  memory  was  dropped  through  the  slit  in  the  shop  door. 
It  was  addressed  to  "Henry  Harper,  Esquire,"  and  ran  as 
follows : 

DEAR  MR.  HARPER, 

Come  and  see  me  as  soon  as  3^011  can  and  let  us  have  an- 
other little  talk  about  "The  adventures  of  Dick  Smith." 
Very  sincerely  yours, 

EDWARD  AMBROSE. 

Henry  Harper  did  not  understand  the  significance  of  those 
few  and  simple  words.  Mr.  Rudge  had  a  fair  juster  appre- 
ciation of  the  three  barely  legible  lines  signed  "Edward 
Ambrose."  But  the  next  morning,  after  further  ministrations 
of  his  master's  clothes  brush,  the  young  man  went  courage- 
ously forth  to  I2B,  Pall  Mall. 

The  bemedaled  commissionaire  and  the  bald-headed  gen- 
tleman had  no  terrors  for  him  now.  Had  he  not  walked  and 
talked  with  Zeus  himself?  These  Olympian  sconce  bearers 
258 


THE  SAILOR 

could  not  eat  him,  and  there  is  always  comfort  in  that  reflec- 
tion for  an  imaginative  mind.  Even  a  ten  minutes'  wait  in 
the  room  below  did  not  matter. 

Mr.  Ambrose  greeted  him  with  a  grip  of  the  hand  which 
seemed  to  utter  a  volume. 

"It's  a  very  fine  thing,"  said  the  editor,  without  a  word 
of  preface,  as  if  there  could  be  only  one  thought  for  either 
just  then.  "At  least  that's  my  opinion."  He  laughed  a  little 
at  his  own  vehemence.  "Some  people  will  not  agree  with  me. 
They'll  say  it's  too  crude,  they'll  say  the  colors  are  laid  on 
too  thick.  But  that  to  me  is  its  wonderful  merit;  it  con- 
vinces in  spite  of  itself,  which  is  almost  the  surest  test  of 
genius,  although  that's  a  big  word.  But  you've  a  great  fac- 
ulty. I'm  so  glad  you've  been  able  to  make  such  a  fine  thing." 
His  eyes  shone;  the  charming  voice  vibrated  with  simple 
enthusiasm.  *"How  one  envies  a  man  who  can  make  a  thing 
like  that!" 

"You  needn't,  sir,"  said  the  Sailor,  hardly  knowing  that 
he  had  spoken. 

Edward  Ambrose  fell  to  earth  like  an  exploded  firework. 
In  spite  of  an  eagerness  of  temperament  which  amused  his 
friends,  he  was  not  a  vaporer.  He,  too,  had  been  in  deep 
places,  although  the  strange  kingdoms  he  had  seen  were  not 
exactly  those  of  this  young  man,  this  curious,  awkward,  silent, 
unforgettable  figure. 

"No,  I  expect  not,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose  in  a  changed  tone, 
after  a  short  pause.  And  then  he  added  abruptly,  "Now, 
suppose  we  sit  down  and  talk  business." 

They  sat  down,  but  the  Sailor  had  no  better  idea  of  talking 
business  than  the  table  in  front  of  him. 

"I  want  very  much  to  run  it  as  a  serial  in  the  magazine," 
said  the  editor. 

"I'll  be  very  proud,  sir." 

"Well,  now,  what  do  you  think  we  ought  to  pay  for  it? 
259 


THE  SAILOR 

Just  for  the  serial  rights,  you  know.  Of  course  I  ought  to 
explain  that  you  are  a  new  and  untried  author,  and  so  on. 
But  to  my  mind  that's  cheating.  Either  a  thing  is  or  it  isn't. 
I  dare  say  I'm  wrong  ...  in  a  world  in  which  nothing  is 
certain  .  .  .  however  .  .  .  what  do  you  think  we  ought  to 
pay  for  the  serial  rights? 

"I'll  leave  it  to  you,  sir." 

"Well,  the  magazine  can  afford  to  pay  three  hundred 
pounds.  And  we  will  talk  about  the  book  rights  later." 

Such  a  sum  was  beyond  the  Sailor's  wildest  dreams.  Truth 
to  tell  he  had  dreamed  very  little  upon  that  aspect  of  the 
matter.  He  knew  the  value  of  money,  therefore  it  had  never 
occurred  to  him  that  it  would  be  within  the  power  of  a  pen 
and  a  bottle  of  ink  to  bring  it  to  him  in  such  fabulous  quan- 
tities. He  seemed  just  now  to  be  living  in  a  dream. 

"Three  hundred  pounds,  then,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose.  "And 
I  wish  the  magazine  could  have  paid  more  without  injustice 
to  itself.  But  its  audience  is  small,  though  select — as  we 
hope — at  any  rate. 

The  Sailor's  manner  showed  very  clearly  that  no  apology 
was  called  for.  Such  a  sum  was  princely.  Gratitude  was 
the  emotion  uppermost,  and  he  did  his  best  to  express  it  in 
,  his  queer,  disjointed  way. 

"I'll  always  remember  your  kindness,  sir,"  he  said  huskily. 
"I'd  never  have  been  able  to  make  anything  of  it  at  all  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  would.  Not  so  soon,  perhaps,  but  it's  all 
there.  Anyhow,  I'm  very  glad  if  I've  been  a  bit  of  use  at  the 
first  fence." 

The  cordial  directness  of  Edward  Ambrose  made  a  strong 
appeal  to  the  Sailor.  He  had  knocked  about  the  world 
enough  to  begin  to  know  something  of  men.  And  of  one 
thing  he  was  already  convinced.  The  editor  was  of  the 
true  Klondyke  breed.  He  said  what  he  meant,  and  he  meant 
260 


THE  SAILOR 

what  he  said.  And  when  this  fortunate  interview  was  at 
an  end  and  the  young  man  returned  to  the  Charing  Cross 
Road,  it  was  not  so  much  the  fabulous  sum  which  had  come 
to  him  that  made  him  happy,  as  the  sure  knowledge  that  he 
had  found  a  friend.  He  had  found  a  friend  of  the  kind  for 
which  his  soul  had  long  craved. 


XII 


NOW  that  Greased  Lightning  is  beginning  to  make 
good,"  said  Miss  Gertie  Press,  "I  suppose  you'll 
marry  him,  my  Cora?" 

"Shouldn't  wonder.     Have  a  banana." 

This  was  persiflage  on  the  part  of  Miss  Dobbs.  She 
meant  have  a  cigarette. 

Miss  Press  lit  the  cheap  but  scented  Egyptian  that 
was  offered  her,  and  lay  back  in  the  wicker  chair  with  an 
air  of  languor  which  somehow  did  not  match  up  with  the 
gaminlike  acuteness  of  her  comically  ill-natured  counte- 
nance. 

"That's  where  long  views  come  in,"  philosophized  Miss 
Press.  "Wish  I  could  take  'em.  But  I  can't.  I  haven't 
the  nous.  We  all  thought  you  was  potty  to  take  up  with 
him.  But  you  won't  half  give  us  the  bird  now  he  looks  like 
turning  out  a  good  investment." 

Miss  Dobbs  smiled  at  the  frankness  of  her  friend.  Miss 
Press  was  noted  throughout  the  length  and  the  breadth  of 
the  Avenue  for  her  habit  of  thinking  aloud. 

Miss  Zoe  Bonser,  who  was  eating  a  tea  cake,  also  smiled. 
^t  was  Sunday  afternoon,  and  these  three  ladies  were  await- 
ing the  arrival  of  Mr.  Henry  Harper  in  a  rather  speculative 
frame  of  mind.  The  previous  Sunday  Mr.  Harper  had  not 
appeared. 

261 


THE  SAILOR 

It  was  no  longer  possible  to  laugh  at  the  mere  name  of 
Greased  Lightning  and  to  pull  Cora's  leg  and  chaff  her 
unmercifully.  It  seemed  that  Miss  Bonser,  having  men- 
tioned casually  to  Mr.  Albert  Hobson  that  she  had  a  friend 
who  had  a  friend  who  knew  a  young  fellow  whose  first 
serial  was  just  beginning  in  Brown's,  the  admired  Albert 
had  inquired  immediately: 

"What's  the  name  of  your  young  fellow?" 

"He's  not  my  young  fellow,"  said  Zoe  the  cautious.  "But 
his  name's — Lord,  I've  forgotten  it!"  This  was  untrue. 
"But  we  all  think  he's  potty." 

"His  name  is  not  Henry  Harper,  by  any  chance?" 

Miss  Bonser  nodded  discreetly.  She  was  a  little  surprised 
at  the  set  of  the  wind. 

"But,  of  course,  he's  barmy." 

"Whatever  he  is,  he's  no  slouch,"  said  the  judicial  Mr. 
Hobson.  He  himself  was  no  slouch  either,  in  spite  of  the 
company  which  in  houis  of  ease  he  affected.  "He'll  go  far. 
He's  another  Stevenson  and  with  luck  one  of  these  days  he 
might  be  something  bigger." 

"Don't  care  if  he's  a  John  Roberts  or  a  Dawson,"  said 
Zoe;  "he's  not  fit  to  be  out  without  his  nurse."  If  the  latter 
part  of  Mr.  Hobson's  statement  had  meant  little  to  that 
'astute  mind,  the  first  part  meant  a  good  deal. 

Miss  Bonser  bore  the  news  to  King  John's  Mansions  on 
th<r  following  Sunday  afternoon.  It  made  quite  a  sensation. 
Bert  Hobson  was  the  nearest  thing  to  "the  goods"  which  had 
yet  impinged  on  that  refined  circle.  He  was  something 
more  than  the  average  harmless  fool  about  town;  in  the 
opinion  of  Miss  Dobbs  and  Miss  Press,  he  knew  his  way 
about;  and  if  Albert  had  really  said  that  Harry  was  the 
coming  man,  he  could  not  have  such  a  great  distance  to 
vravel. 

"I  hope  he  is  not  going  to  give  us  a  miss  in  baulk  now 
262 


THE  SAILOR 

he's  got  there.  That'll  be  swank  if  he  does,  won't  it, 
Bonser?"  Miss  Press  winked  at  Miss  Bonser  in  a  serio- 
comic manner. 

"It  will,  Press,"  said  that  lady. 

"He'll  come.  You'll  see,"  said  Miss  Dobbs,  with  rea- 
soned optimism.  "He's  here  now." 

In  fact,  at  that  moment  a  mild  assault  was  being  deliv- 
ered by  the  decrepit  knocker  on  a  faintly  responsive  front 
door. 

"What  was  the  check  that  Brown's  gave  him?"  Miss 
Press  asked  Miss  Bonser,  as  Miss  Dobbs  went  forth  to 
receive  her  guest. 

"Three  hundred — so  she  says." 

"Do  you  believe  it?" 

"Why  not?" 

"But  he's  barmy." 

"All  these  writing  men  are." 

"Except  Bert." 

"Oh,  he's  barmy  in  a  way,  else  he  wouldn't  have  taken  up 
with  me." 

"Yes,  that's  true,  dear.    But  did  he  say  that  about  It?" 

"Ye-es." 

"Well,  it's  time  she  had  a  bit  of  luck  ...  if  she's  really 
going  to  have  it.  She  wants  it  badly." 

"Yes,  by  God." 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Henry  Harper  came  into  the  room. 
He~entered  very  nervously  with  his  usual  blush  of  embar- 
rassment. The  truth  was,  although  he  had  yet  to  realize  it 
clearly,  the  undercurrent  of  sarcasm,  never  absent  from  this 
refined  atmosphere,  always  hurt  him.  Mr.  Henry  Harper 
wras  a  very  sensitive  plant,  and  these  fashionable  and  witty 
ladies  did  not  appear  to  know  that. 

"He's  a  swanker,"  was  the  greeting  of  Miss  Press,  as  she 
offered  her  hand  and  then  withdrew  it  playfully  before  Mr. 
263 


THE  SAILOR 

Harper  could  take  it.  "And  I  never  shake  hands  with  a 
swanker,  do  I,  Bonser?" 

"But  he's  so  clever,"  said  Miss  Bonser,  politely  offering 
hers.  "He's  Bert  Hobson  at  his  best." 

Mr.  Harper  was  so  overcome  by  this  reception  that  he  had 
the  misfortune  to  knock  over  the  teapot,  which  had  been 
placed  on  a  small  and  ill-balanced  Japanese  table. 

"Damn  you!"  The  voice  of  the  hostess  came  upon  the 
culprit  like  the  stroke  of  a  whip.  For  a  moment  Miss 
Dobbs  was  off  her  guard.  She  was  furious  at  the  ruin  of  her 
carpet  and  her  hospitality,  although  the  latter  was  really  the 
more  important  as  the  carpet  was  ruined  already.  "How- 
ever, it  doesn't  matter."  She  hastened  to  cover  the  "Damn 
you"  with  a  heroic  smile.  "Take  a  pew,  Harry,  and  make 
yourself  comfy.  I  can  easily  get  some  more ;  it's  the  slavey's 
Sunday  out."  The  hostess,  teapot  in  hand,  withdrew  from 
the  room  with  a  winning  air  of  reconstituted  amenity. 

"If  you  had  been  a  little  gentleman,"  said  Miss  Press,  as 
the  hostess  left  the  room,  "you  would  have  shot  out  of  your 
chair,  opened  the  door  for  her,  carried  the  teapot  to  the 
kitchen,  and  held  the  caddy  while  she  put  in  more  tea.  And 
then  you'd  have  riddled  about  with  the  kettle  while  she  held 
the  teapot,  and  poured  boiling  water  over  her  hand.  After 
that  you'd  have  gone  down  on  your  knees,  and  then  you'd 
have  kissed  it  better.  At  least,  that's  how  you'd  have 
behaved  if  you  had  been  a  mother's  boy  in  the  Guards. 
Wouldn't  he,  Bonser?'' 

"Shut  up,  Press,"  said  Miss  Bonser.  "It's  a  shame  to 
rag  as  you  do." 

"But  he's  a  swanker,"  said  Miss  Press.  "And  I  don't 
like  swankers." 

Mr.  Harper  was  in  a  state  of  extreme  misery  and  feeling 
very  pink  about  the  ears,  when  the  smiling  Miss  Dobbs 
reappeared  with  a  fresh  pot  of  tea.  The  way  in  which  she 
264 


THE  SAILOR 

contrived  to  efface  the  tragic  incident  was  admirable.  She 
poured  out  gracefully  a  cup  of  tea  for  Mr.  Harper,  a  ter- 
ribly weak  cup  of  tea  it  was,  and  pressed  half  a  buttered 
scone  upon  him  and  smiled  at  him  all  the  time,  perhaps  a 
little  anxiously,  with  her  wonderful  teeth.  But  in  spite  of 
these  winning  attentions,  it  was  not  certain  that  the  young 
man  was  going  to  enjoy  himself.  That  honest  and  forth- 
right "Damn  you"  had  brought  with  it  somehow  the  taste 
of  Auntie's  whip,  and  he  could  feel  it  still.  Then,  too, 
these  clever  and  witty  ladies  had  a  way  of  making  him  feel 
ridiculous.  Also,  they  spoke  a  language  he  didn't  under- 
stand. Moreover,  he  knew  that  Miss  Press  meant  it  when. 
she  said  he  wasn't  a  gentleman.  To  tell  the  truth,  that  was 
a  fact  of  which  he  was  growing  daily  more  conscious,  and 
the  jesting  remark  of  Miss  Press  hurt  almost  as  much  as 
the  "Damn  you." 

"If  I  was  clever,  and  had  a  three-hundred-pound  serial 
running  in  Brown's  Magazine"  said  Miss  Press,  "I'd  be  so 
set  up  with  myself  that  I  wouldn't  give  a  word  to  a  dog 
when  I  came  out  to  a  bun-worry.  Would  you,  Bonser?" 

"Shut  up,  Press,"  said  the  benign  Miss  Bonser.  "Little 
girls  should  be  seen  but  not  heard — at  least,  that's  what  my 
dear  old  governess  taught  me  in  the  long  ago." 

"Yes,  I  knew  you  was  brought  up  a  clergyman's  daugh- 
ter," said  Miss  Press,  returning  stoutly  to  the  charge.  "And 
so  was  Pressy  and  so  was  Dobby,  and  so  was  all  of  us." 

"Play  cricket,  Pressy,"  said  the  hostess,  rather  plaintively. 

For  all  that  he  knew,  Mr.  Harper  might  have  been  listen- 
ing to  a  dead  language.  This  may  have  relieved  his  inind 
a  little.  All  the  same,  it  made  it  very  difficult  to  take  a  hand 
in  the  conversation,  which  these  ladies  clearly  felt  to  be  the 
duty  of  a  gentleman,  whether  he  was  in  the  Guards  or  not. 

Suddenly  Miss  Press  caused  a  portion  of  Mr.  Harper's 
buttered  scone  "to  go  the  wrong  way"  by  placing  one  of  his 
265 


THE  SAILOR 

hands  in  that  of  his  hostess,  who  had  taken  a  seat  rather 
near  him. 

"Allow  me,"  said  Miss  Press,  rising  gallantly  from  her 
chair,  and  dealing  Mr.  Harper  a  succession  of  hearty  buffets 
in  the  middle  of  the  back.  "You  really  are  the  limit,  Enery. 
You  might  never  have  been  in  love  before." 

"Chuck  it,  Pressy,"  said  Miss  Dobbs.  "Let  my  Harry 
alone.  My  Harry's  very  clever,  and  his  Cora's  very  proud  of 
him.  Aren't  I,  Harry?"  Miss  Dobbs  flashed  upon  the 
unhappy  young  man  a  glance  of  very  high  candle  power. 
-She  also  sighed  seraphically. 

When  Mr.  Harper  had  swallowed  his  tea,  of  which  one 
rcup  sufficed,  and  after  abandoning  any  further  attempt  to 
deal  with  his  buttered  scone,  the  hostess  gathered  the  tea 
things  with  the  aid  of  her  friends.  She  then  took  them  to 
the  back  premises,  declining  further  help.  In  spite  of  the 
protests  of  her  guests,  Miss  Dobbs  insisted  on  this  self-deny- 
ing course.  She  left  Mr.  Henry  Harper  in  their  care,  and 
hoped  they  would  do  their  best  to  amuse  him  during  her 
absence. 

XIII 

HARRY,"  said  Miss  Press,  with  a  dramatic  change 
of  tone  as  soon  as  the  hostess  had  retired  with  the 
tea  things,  "Zoe  and  I  have  to  talk  to  you  very 
serious.     Haven't  we,  Zoe?" 

Miss  Bonser  nodded  impressively. 
"You  are  not  playing  fair  with  Cora,  Harry." 
During  the  slight  pause  which  followed  this  statement,  a 
look  of  fawnlike  bewilderment  flitted  across  the  eyes  of  the 
Sailor. 

"You  are  breaking  her  heart,"  said  Miss  Press,  with  tragic 
simplicity. 

266 


THE  SAILOR 

"Yes,  dear,"  came  the  thrilling  whisper  of  Miss  Bonser. 
"That's  true." 

"We  are  telling  you  this,  Harry,"  said  Miss  Press,  "be- 
cause we  think  it  is  something  you  ought  to  know.  You 
think  so,  don't  you,  dear?" 

"I  do,  dear,"  said  Miss  Bonser. 

j  "Cora  is  one  of  the  best  that  ever  stepped,"  said  Miss 
Press.  "She  has  a  heart  of  gold,  she  is  a  girl  in  a  thousand. 
It  would  be  a  black  shame  to  spoil  her  life.  You  think  that, 
don't  you,  dear?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Miss  Bonser  emotionally. 

Mr.  Harper  was  completely  out  of  his  depth.  He  didn't 
know  in  the  least  what  they  were  talking  about. 

"Forgive  us,  Harry,  for  taking  it  upon  ourselves  in  this 
way,"  said  Miss  Bonser,  in  a  kind,  quiet  voice.  "We  are 
all  for  a  bit  of  fun,  but  we  can't  stand  by  and  see  a  good  girl 
suffering  in  silence,  can  we,  Gertie?" 

"No,  dear,"  said  Gertie,  with  pathos. 

Both  ladies  eyed  him  cautiously.  He  was  so  innocent,  he 
was  such  a  simple  child  that  they  could  almost  have  found  it 
in  their  hearts  to  pity  him. 

"We  feel  bound  to  mention  it,  Harry,"  said  Miss  Press. 
"Poor  Cora  can't  take  her  oats  or  anything.  She  has  to  have 
a  sleeping  draught  now." 

"And  she's  getting  that  thin,  poor  thing,"  chimed  the 
plaintive  Miss  Bonser. 

The  Sailor's  perplexity  grew. 

"If  you  ask  me,"  said  Miss  Press,  suddenly  taking  a 
higher  note,  "it's  up  to  you,  Harry,  to  play  the  gentleman." 
Watching  the  color  change  in  his  face,  she  knew  she  was  on 
the  target  now.  "A  gentleman  don't  play  fast  and  loose,  if 
you  ask  me." 

"At  least,  not  the  sort  we  are  used  to,"  whispered  Miss 
Bonser,  in  a  superb  pianissimo. 
18  267 


THE  SAILOR 

"It's  Lord  Caradoc  and  Pussy  Pearson  over  again,"  said 
Miss  Press.  "But  Caradoc  being  the  goods  married  Pussy 
without  making  any  bones  about  it.  Harry,  it's  up  to  you  to 
follow  the  example  of  a  real  gentleman.  Forgive  us  for 
speaking  plain." 

Henry  Harper  glanced  nervously  from  one  lady  to  the 
other.  A  light  was  just  beginning  to  dawn  upon  him. 

"Cora's  a  straight  girl,"  said  Miss  Bonser,  taking  up  the 
parable.  "She's  one  of  the  plucky  ones,  is  Cora.  It's  a  hard 
world  for  lonely  girls  like  her,  isn't  it,  Gert?" 

"It  is,  dear,"  said  Gert.  "And  one  like  Cora,  whose 
position,  as  you  might  say,  is  uncertain,  can't  be  too  careful. 
You  see,  Harry,  you  have  been  coming  to  her  flat  for  the  best 
part  of  a  year.  You've  been  with  her  to  the  theater  and  the 
Coliseum;  two  Sundays  ago  she  was  seen  with  you  on  the 
river,  and — well,  she's  been  getting  herself  talked  about,  and 
Jiat's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"Cora's  a  girl  in  a  thousand,"  chimed  Zoe  the  tactful. 
"She  worships  the  ground  you  walk  on,  Harry." 

A  painfully  startled  look  came  suddenly  into  the  eyes  of 
the  young  man.  Both  ladies  felt  the  look  rather  than  saw  it, 
and  gave  another  sharp  turn  to  the  screw. 

"Of  course,  you  haven't  known  it,  Harry,"  said  Miss 
Press.  "She  wouldn't  let  you  know  it.  But  that's  Cora." 

"She  would  rather  have  died,"  said  Zoe.  "You  will  not 
breathe  a  word,  of  course,  Harry.  She  would  never  forgive 
us  if  she  knew  we  had  let  on." 

"That's  her  pride,"  said  Miss  Press. 

"And  the  way  that  poor  thing  cried  her  eyes  out  when  you 
didn't  turn  up  at  tea  time  last  Sunday  as  usual,  the  first  time 

for  nearly  a  year,  well "  Language  suddenly  failed 

Miss  Bonser.  "A  pretty  job  we  had  with  her,  hadn't  we, 
Gert?" 

So  cunningly  had  the  screw  been  applied,  that  Mr.  Harper 
268 


THE  SAILOR 

felt  dazed.  Suddenly  Miss  Bonser  raised  a  finger  of 
warning. 

"Shush!"  It  was  half  a  whisper,  half  a  hiss.  "Not  a 
word.  Here's  Cora." 

Miss  Dobbs  came  in  so  abruptly  that  she  nearly  caught 
the  injunction.  And  hardly  had  she  entered,  when  Miss 
Press  and  Miss  Bonser  rose  together  and  declared  that  they 
must  really  be  going. 

The  hostess  made  a  polite  and  conventional  objection,  but 
both  ladies  kissed  her  effusively  and  hustled  her  out  into  the 
passage. 

"Dobby,"  Miss  Press  whispered  excitedly,  as  soon  as 
they  had  reached  that  dark  and  smelly  draught  distributor, 
"we've  fairly  put  the  half  Nelson  on  him.  Now  go  in  and 
fix  him  up." 

Miss  Bonser  and  Miss  Press  tripped  down  the  many 
unswept  stone  stairs  of  King  John's  Mansions,  and  Miss 
Dobbs  closed  the  front  door  of  No.  106.  She  then  returned 
to  Mr.  Harper  in  the  "boo-door." 

"Well,  Harry,"  she  said,  "why  didn't  you  come  last 
Sunday?" 

Had  the  Sailor  been  true  to  his  strongest  instinct  he 
would  have  fled.  But  he  stayed  where  he  was  for  several 
reasons,  and  of  these  the  most  cogent  was  quite  a  simple 
one.  There  was  a  will  stronger  than  his  own  in  the  room 
just  then. 

Miss  Bonser  and  Miss  Press,  as  became  a  long  experience 
of  the  chase,  had  done  their  work  with  efficiency.  The  Sailor 
had  not  guessed  that  this  friendly  and  amusing  and  very 
agreeable  lady — in  spite  of  the  "Damn  you" — was  so  very 
much  in  love  with  him.  It  was  a  wholly  unexpected  issue, 
for  which  the  young  man  was  inclined  to  blame  himself 
bitterly. 

"Well,  Harry,"  said  Miss  Dobbs,  breaking  suddenly  upon 
269 


THE  SAILOR 

a  whirl  of  rather  terrifying  thoughts,  "why  didn't  you  come 
last  Sunday?" 

He  was  in  a  state  of  mental  chaos,  therefore  to  attempt 
to  answer  the  question  was  useless. 

"Why  didn't  oo,  Harry?"  Miss  Dobbs  suddenly  felt 
that  it  was  a  case  for  force  majeure.  Very  unexpectedly  she 
flung  her  arms  round  his  neck.  Risking  the  rickety  cane 
chair  she  sat  heavily  upon  his  knee,  yet  not  so  heavily  as  she 
might  have  done,  and  with  a  she-leopard's  tenderness  drew 
his  head  to  her  ample  bosom. 

A  thrill  of  repugnance  passed  through  Henry  Harper,  yet 
he  was  so  fully  engaged  with  a  very  pressing  problem  as 
hardly  to  know  that  it  had. 

"Kiss  your  Cora,  Harry." 

But  his  Cora  kissed  Harry  instead.  And  as  she  did  so, 
the  unfailing  instinct  given  to  woman  told  her  that  that  kiss 
was  a  mistake. 

In  the  next  instant,  the  fat  arms  had  disengaged  them- 
selves from  the  young  man's  neck,  and  Miss  Dobbs  had 
slipped  from  his  knee  and  was  standing  looking  at  him. 

Her  gesture  was  striking  and  picturesque;  also  she  had 
the  air  of  a  tragedy  queen. 

"Harry,"  she  said,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice,  "you  are 
breaking  my  heart." 

The  Sailor  had  already  been  informed  of  that.  He  had 
tried  not  to  believe  it,  but  facts  were  growing  too  strong  for 
him.  A  superb  tear  was  in  the  eyes  of  Miss  Dobbs.  The 
sight  of  it  thrilled  and  startled  him. 

Twice  before  in  his  life  had  he  seen  tears  in  the  eyes  of  a 
woman,  and  with  his  abnormal  power  of  memory  he  vividly 
recalled  each  occasion  now.  The  first  time  was  in  the  eyes 
of  Mother,  the  true  woman  he  would  always  reverence, 
when  she  took  off  his  clothes  after  his  first  flight  from  Black- 
hampton,  and  put  him  into  a  bath;  the  second  time  was  in 
270 


THE  SAILOR 

the  eyes  of  Miss  Foldal,  and  she  also  was  a  true  woman 
whose  memory  he  would  always  honor,  when  she  said  good- 
bye on  the  night  of  the  second  departure  from  the  city  of  his 
birth.  But  the  tears  in  the  eyes  of  Mother  and  Miss  Foldal 
were  not  as  the  superb  and  terrible  tear  in  the  eye  of  Miss 
Cora  Dobbs. 

"Don't  think  I  blame  you,  Harry,"  said  that  lady  with  a 
Jocasta-like  note,  trying  to  keep  the  bitterness  out  of  her 
tone.  "I'm  only  a  lonely  and  unprotected  girl  who  will  soon 
be  on  the  shelf,  but  that's  no  fault  of  yours.  Yet,  somehow, 
I  thought  you  were  different.  Somehow,  I  thought  you  was 
a  gentleman." 

Miss  Dobbs  had  no  illusions  on  that  point,  but  she  well 
knew  where  the  shoe  was  going  to  pinch. 

"I'll  be  a  mark  and  a  laughing  stock,"  said  the  tragic 
Cora,  "as  poor  Pussy  was  before  Caradoc  made  up  his  mind 
to  marry  her.  While  he  was  plain  Bill  Jackson  nothing  was 
good  enough  for  Pussy.  Used  to  take  her  to  the  Coliseum 
and  on  the  river  in  the  summer,  and  used  to  come  to  her  flat 
a  bit  lower  down  the  Avenue  to  take  tea  with  her  and  her 
friends  every  Sunday  of  his  life.  And  then  suddenly  Bill 
came  into  the  title,  and  poor  Pussy  got  a  miss  from  my  lord. 
We  all  thought  at  first  she  would  go  out  of  her  mind.  She 
£  worshiped  the  ground  that  Bill  walked  upon.  Besides,  she 
couldn't  bear  to  be  made  a  mark  of  by  her  friends ;  and  being 
nothing  but  a  straight  girl  there  was  always  her  reputation  to 
consider.  Poor  Pussy  had  to  take  a  sleeping  draught  every 
night  for  months.  But  Caradoc  played  cricket  in  the  end  as 
he  was  bound  to  do,  being  a  gentleman  by  birth,  and  Pussy  is 
now  a  countess  with  two  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  and  only- 
last  summer  she  invited  me  to  go  and  spend  a  fortnight  with 
her  at  her  place  in  Ireland,  but,  of  course,  I  couldn't,  because 
I  hadn't  the  clothes.  Still,  I'm  glad  for  Pussy's  sake.  She 
was  always  one  of  the  best,  was  Pussy.  All's  well  that  ends 
271 


THE  SAILOR 

well,  isn't  it?"  And  Miss  Jocasta  Dobbs  very  abruptly 
broke  down. 

It  was  a  breakdown  of  the  most  nerve-shattering  kind. 
The  tears  streamed  down  her  face.  She  struggled  almost 
hysterically  not  to  give  way,  yet  the  more  she  struggled,  the 
more  she  did  give  way. 

"Miss  Dobbs,"  he  gasped,  huskily — he  had  known  her  a 
long  and  crowded  year,  but  he  had  never  ventured  on 
Cora — "Miss  Cora" — he  had  done  it  now!  "I  didn't  mean 
nothing." 

Better  had  he  held  his  peace. 

"You  didn't  mean  anything!"  There  was  a  change  in 
the  voice  of  Jocasta.  "You  didn't  mean  anything,  Mr.  Har- 
per? No,  I  suppose  not." 

The  young  man  drew  in  his  breath  sharply.  The  tone  of 
Miss  Dobbs  was  edged  like  a  knife. 

"It  was  only  a  poor  and  unprotected  girl  with  whom  you 
might  play  the  fool  until  you  had  made  good.  It  was  only  a 
girl  who  valued  her  fair  name,  a  girl  who  would  have  died 
rather  than  be  made  a  mark  of  by  her  friends.  I  suppose 
now  you  are  a  big  man  and  earning  big  money,  you  will  take 
up  with  somebody  else.  Well,  I'm  not  the  one  to  grudge 
any  girl  her  luck." 

The  sudden  fall  in  the  voice  of  Miss  Dobbs  and  the  half 
veiled  look  in  her  eyes  somehow  took  Henry  Harper  back  to 
the  Auntie  of  his  childhood.  And  it  almost  seemed  that  she 
also  had  in  her  hand  a  weapon  which  she  knew  well  how 
to  use. 

"I  thought  I  had  a  gentleman  to  deal  with,"  said  Miss 
Dobbs,  brushing  aside  a  tear,  "but  it  was  my  mistake.  How- 
ever, it's  never  too  late  to  learn."  Her  laugh  seemed  to 
strike  him. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  mislead  you,"  mumbled  the  young  mars 
who  felt  like  a  trapped  and  desperate  animal.  Yet  whetx 


THE  SAILOR 

all  was  said,  the  emotion  uppermost  was  not  for  himself. 
This  woman  was  hurting  him  horribly,  but  it  was  the  fact, 
as  he  thought,  that  he  was  hurting  her  still  more  without  any 
intention  of  evil  towards  her,  which  now  took  possession  of 
his  mind.  He  would  do  anything  to  soften  the  pain  he  was 
unwittingly  causing.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  hurt  a  liv- 
ing thing. 

"I  beg  pardon,  Miss  Cora,"  he  said,  faintly,  "I  didn't 
mean  nothing  like  that." 

She  turned  upon  him,  a  tigress,  and  rent  him.  Nor  did  he 
shrink  from  the  wounds  she  dealt.  It  was  no  more  than  he 
deserved.  He  should  have  learned  a  little  more  about  ladies 
and  their  fine  feelings  and  their  social  outlook,  before  daring 
to  go  to  tea  at  their  private  flats  and  to  meet  their  friends; 
before  daring  to  be  seen  with  them  at  a  public  place  like  the 
Coliseum  or  in  a  boat  on  the  river.  He  was  receiving  a  much 
needed  lesson.  It  was  one  he  would  never  forget. 


XIV 

HENRY  HARPER  did  not  go  to  tea  at  King  John's 
Mansions  on  the  next  Sunday  afternoon.    And  on 
the  following  Sunday  he  stayed  away  too.    More- 
over, during  the  whole  of  that  fortnight  Miss  Cora  Dobbs 
did  not  call  once  at  No.  249,  Charing  Cross  Road. 

This  was  a  relief  to  the  young  man.  He  would  not  have 
known  how  to  meet  her  had  she  come  to  the  shop  as  usual. 
He  was  so  shattered  by  the  bolt  from  the  blue  that  he  didn't 
know  in  the  least  what  to  do. 

Happily  there  was  his  work  to  distract  him.     Mr.  Am- 
brose had  suggested  that  he  should  write  another  tale  for 
Brown's  Magazine.    He  was  to  take  his  own  time  over  the 
new  story,  bearing  ever  in  mind  the  advice  given  him  for- 
273 


THE  SAILOR 

merly,  which  he  had  turned  to  very  good  account ;  and  in  the 
meantime,  his  fancy  could  expand  in  the  happy  knowledge 
that  the  "Adventures  of  Dick  Smith"  were  attracting  atten- 
tion in  the  magazine.  Mr.  Ambrose  had  already  arranged 
for  the  story  to  appear  as  a  book  when  its  course  had  run  in 
Brown's,  and  he  was  convinced — if  prophecy  was  ever  safe  in 
literary  matters — that  real  success  awaited  it. 

Could  Henry  Harper  have  put  Miss  Cora  Dobbs  out  of 
his  thoughts,  he  might  have  been  almost  completely  happy  in 
planning  and  writing  the  "Further  Adventures  of  Dick 
Smith."  Aladdin's  wonderful  lamp  was  making  his  life  a 
fairy  tale.  An  incredible  vista  of  fame  and  fortune  was 
spreading  before  his  eyes.  Even  Mr.  Rudge  had  been 
stricken  with  awe  by  the  check  for  three  hundred  pounds. 

Yet,  at  the  back  of  everything  just  now  was  a  terrible 
feeling  of  indecision.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  the 
great  world  of  which  he  knew  so  little,  clearly  looked  to  him 
"to  act  the  gentleman."  The  phrase  was  that  of  the  elegant 
and  refined  Miss  Bonser  and  the  dashing  Miss  Press,  who 
mixed  habitually  with  gentlemen,  and  therefore  were  in  a 
position  to  speak  with  authority  on  such  a  delicate  matter. 
And  so  plain  was  his  duty  that  it  had  even  percolated  to 
Mrs.  Greaves,  who,  in  ways  subtle  and  mysterious,  seemed 
to  be  continually  unbosoming  herself  to  a  similar  tenor. 

In  the  course  of  the  third  week  of  crisis,  Mr.  Harper's 
perplexities  were  greatly  increased  by  a  brief  but  emotional 
note,  written  on  elegantly  art-shaded  notepaper,  which  had 
the  name  "Cora"  with  a  ring  round  it  engraved  in  the  left- 
hand  corner.  It  said : 

DEAR  HARRY, 

\Vhy  haven't  you  been  or  written?  I  am  feeling  so  low 
and  miserable  that  unless  you  come  to  see  me  Sunday,  the 
doctor  says  I  shall  have  a  bad  breakdown. 

Yours,  CORA. 

274 


THE  SAILOR 

Somehow,  this  letter,  couched  in  such  grimly  pathetic 
terms,  seemed  to  leave  the  young  man  with  no  alternative. 
Therefore,  on  the  following  Sunday  afternoon,  at  the  usual 
hour,  he  was  just  able  to  screw  up  courage  to  knock  at  the 
door  of  No.  1 06,  King  John's  Mansions. 

He  was  rather  surprised  to  find  Cora  in  good  health; 
certainly  the  tone  of  her  letter  had  implied  that  such  was  not 
the  case.  She  had  no  appearance  of  suffering.  In  tone  and 
manner  she  was  a  little  chastened,  but  that  was  all. 

Miss  Bonser  and  Miss  Press  were  also  there  when  Mr. 
Harper  arrived.  But  their  reception  of  him  was  so  much 
more  formal  than  was  usual  that  a  feeling  of  tension  was  at 
once  created.  It  was  as  if  these  experienced  ladies  under- 
stood that  some  high  issue  was  pending. 

Each  of  them  treated  him  in  quite  a  different  way  from 
that  which  she  had  used  before.  In  her  own  style,  each  was 
lofty  and  grande  dame.  It  was  no  longer  Harry,  but  Mr. 
Harper;  and  they  shook  hands  with  him  without  cordiality, 
but  with  quiet  dignity,  and  said,  "How  do  you  do?" 

Strange  to  say,  Mr.  Harper  found  this  reception  more  to 

his  liking  than  the  less  studied  manner  in  which  he  was 

received  as  a  rule.     Now  that  he  had  not  to  meet  persiflage 

)  and  chaff,  he  was  fairly  cool  and  collected.    The  stately  bow 

,  W  Miss  Press  and  the  archly  fashionable  handshake  of  Miss 

*  Bonser  were  much   less   embarrassing   than   their   habitual 

mode  of  attack. 

This  afternoon,  Mr.  Harper  was  treated  as  a  chance 
acquaintance  might  have  been  by  three  fashionable  ladies 
-who  knew  the  world  better  than  they  knew  him.  There 
was  a  subtle  note  of  distance.  This  afternoon,  Miss  Press 
talked  books  and  theaters,  and  talked  them  very  well,  al- 
though, to  be  sure,  rather  better  about  the  latter  than  the 
former.  Yet  in  Mr.  Harper's  judgment,  her  conversation 
was  more  improving  than  her  usual  mode  of  discourse.  Had 
275 


THE  SAILOR 

he  not  been  in  such  a  state  of  turmoil  it  would  have  been 
quite  a  pleasure  to  sit  and  listen,  she  talked  so  well  about 
the  things  that  were  beginning  to  interest  him  intensely ;  also 
her  manner  of  speaking  was  extremely  refined. 

Miss  Bonser  talked  mainly  about  the  Royal  Academy  of 
Arts.  She  knew  a  good  deal  about  art,  having  studied  it, 
although  in  what  capacity  she  didn't  state,  before  she  went 
to  the  Maison  Perry.  Nevertheless,  she  had  both  fluency 
and  point;  she  didn't  like  Leader  so  much  as  she  likfd 
Sargent;  she  spoke  of  values,  composition,  brushwork, 
draughtmanship,  and  it  was  really  a  pity  that  Mr.  Haiper 
was  not  easier  in  his  mind,  otherwise  he  could  not  have 
failed  to  be  edified.  As  it  was,  Miss  Press  and  Miss 
Bonser  rose  considerably  in  his  estimation.  He  could  have 
wished  that  they  always  hoisted  themselves  on  these  high 
subjects. 

Both  ladies,  wearing  white  gloves  and  looking  very  comme 
il  faut,  went  soon  after  five,  as  they  had  promised  to  go  on  to 
Lady  Caradoc's.  Mr.  Harper  felt  quite  sorry.  They  had 
talked  so  well  about  the  things  that  interested  him  that  some- 
how their  distinguished  departure  left  a  void.  As  they  got 
up  to  go,  Mr.  Harper,  remembering  a  hint  he  had  received 
from  Miss  Press,  touching  the  behavior  of  a  gentleman  in 
such  circumstances,  sprang  to  the  door,  and  with  less  awk- 
wardness than  usual,  contrived  to  open  it  for  them  to  pass 
out. 

The  ordeal  he  dreaded  was  now  upon  him.  He  was  with 
Cora  alone.  However,  much  to  his  relief,  there  was  no  sign 
at  present  of  "a  bad  breakdown." 

For  three  weeks  he  had  been  living  in  a  little  private  hell 
of  indecision.  But  now  there  was  a  chance  of  winning 
through.  His  duty  was  not  yet  absolutely  clear,  but  he  was 
not  without  hope  that  it  would  become  so.  In  that  time  he 
had  been  thinking  very  hard  and  very  deep.  And  by  some 
276 


THE  SAILOR 

means,  he  had  added  a  cubit  to  his  stature  since  he  stood  last 
on  that  tea-stained  hearthrug  in  the  quasi-comfort  of  that 
overfurnished  "boo-door."  It  was  a  new  and  enlarged  Mr. 
Harper  who  now  confronted  a  more  composed  and  dignified 
Miss  Dobbs. 

"Well,  Harry,"  said  Miss  Dobbs,  "it  is  nice  to  see  you 
here  again." 

He  was  touched  by  such  a  tone  of  magnanimity.  Some- 
how, he  felt  that  it  was  more  than  he  deserved. 

"How's  the  new  story  getting  on?"  There  was  not  a 
sign  of  the  breakdown  at  present.  "Will  it  be  as  good  as  the 
old  one?"  This  was  a  welcome  return  to  her  first  phase  of 
generous  interest ;  to  the  Miss  Dobbs  of  whom  he  had  mem- 
ories not  wholly  unpleasant. 

"I  think  it  is  going  to  be  better,"  he  said  gravely.  "Much 
better.  Anyway,  I  intend  it  to  be." 

"That's  right.  I  like  to  hear  that.  Nothing  like  ambi- 
tion. I  suppose  you'll  get  another  three  hundred  for  this 
one?" 

"Five,"  said  the  young  man.  "That's  if  the  editor  likes 
it." 

"My!"  said  Miss  Dobbs,  with  an  involuntary  flash  of  the 
wary  eyes.  "And  that's  only  for  the  serial." 

"Yes." 

"And,  of  course,  you'll  be  able  to  bring  it  out  as  a  book 
as  well?" 

"The  editor  has  arranged  for  that  already.  For  the  pres- 
ent one,  I  mean." 

"But  you'll  get  paid  for  it  extra,  of  course!" 

"Oh  yes." 

"How  much?"  Miss  Dobbs  spoke  carelessly,  but  her 
eyes  were  by  no  means  careless. 

"I'll  get  a  shilling  for  every  copy  that's  sold." 

"And  how  many  will  they  sell?" 
277 


THE  SAILOR 

"Nobody  knows  that,"  he  said,  and  from  his  tone  it 
seemed  that  aspect  of  the  matter  was  unimportant. 

"No,  I  expect  not."  Her  tone  coincided  readily  with  his. 
"But  I  suppose  a  man  like  Stevenson  or  Bert  Hobson  would 
sell  by  the  hundred  thousand?" 

"No  idea,"  said  the  young  man. 

"But  you  ought  to  have  an  idea,  Harry.  It's  very  im- 
portant. What  you  want  is  somebody  with  a  head  for  busi- 
ness to  look  after  your  affairs." 

He  was  inclined  to  accept  this  view  of  the  matter,  but 
there  would  be  time  to  think  of  that  when  he  really  was  sell- 
ing in  thousands,  which,  of  course,  could  not  be  until  the 
book  was  published. 

"When  will  it  be  published?" 

"Next  week." 

"Next  week!  And  you  are  going  to  get  a  sure  five 
hundred,  apart  from  the  book,  for  the  story  you  are  writ- 
ing now?" 

"If  Mr.  Ambrose  likes  it." 

"Of  course  he'll  like  it.  You  must  make  it  so  good  that 
he  can't  help  liking  it." 

"I'll  try,  anyway." 

Miss  Dobbs  grew  thoughtful.  She  was  inclined  to  be- 
lieve, having  regard  to  all  the  circumstances,  that  she  had  a 
difficult  hand  to  play.  Therefore,  she  began  to  arrange  two 
or  three  of  the  leading  cards  in  her  mind.  To  be  perfectly 
candid  with  herself,  she  could  not  help  thinking,  and  her  two 
friends  had  confirmed  her  in  that  view,  that  she  had  shown 
lack  of  judgment  in  the  cards  she  had  played  already.  For 
one  thing,  it  was  agreed  that  they  might  have  a  little  un- 
derrated the  size  and  the  weight  of  the  fish  that  had  to  be 
landed. 

Miss  Dobbs  was  a  trifle  uncertain  as  to  what  her  next 
move  should  be.  There  was  much  at  stake,  and  one  blunder 
278 


THE  SAILOR 

in  tactics  might  be  fatal.  However,  she  was  about  to  re- 
ceive assistance  of  a  kind  she  had  felt  it  would  no  longer  be 
wise  to  expect. 

"Miss  Dobbs  .  .  .  Cora,"  said  the  young  man,  with  an 
abruptness  that  startled  her.  "There's  something  .  .  . 
something  particular  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

Cora  was  on  guard  at  once.  But  she  was  able  to  make 
clear  that  whatever  he  might  have  to  say  to  her,  she  was 
prepared  to  listen. 

"I've  been  thinking  a  goodish  bit,"  said  Henry  Harper, 
with  a  quaint  stiffening  of  manner  as  the  gruff  words  found 
a  way  out  of  him,  "about  that  talk  we  had  the  last  time  I 
come  here." 

Miss  Dobbs  listened  with  eyes  half  shut.  Her  face  was 
a  mask. 

"I  don't  pretend  to  know  much  about  what's  due  to 
ladies,"  he  said,  after  a  pause  so  long  and  so  trying  that 
it  seemed  to  hypnotize  him.  "I've  not  mixed  much  in  So- 
ciety"— W.  M.  Thackeray,  in  whose  works  he  was  now  tak- 
ing so  much  interest,  had  a  great  belief  in  Society — "but  I 
should  like  to  do  what's  straight." 

Silence  still  seemed  the  part  of  wisdom  for  Miss  Dobbs. 

"If  I've  done  wrong,  I'm  sorry."  There  was  another 
,  very  awkward  pause  to  navigate.  "But  I  didn't  see  no  harm 
'  in  what  I've  done,  and  that's  the  truth." 

A  very  slight  sniff  from  Miss  Dobbs  ...  a  very  slight 
sniff  and  nothing  more. 

"If  I  never  speak  again,  Miss  Cora,  it's  a  solemn  fact." 

The  sniff  grew  slightly  more  pronounced. 

"If  I  had  known  a  bit  more  about  Society,  I  might  not 
have  come  here  quite  so  often." 

"What's  Society  got  to  do  with  it,  anyway?"  suddenly 
asked  Miss  Dobbs,  who  was  getting  a  trifle  bored  by  the 
word. 

279 


THE  SAILOR 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  young  man,  "but  I  thought  it 
had." 

"Why  should  you  think  so?" 

"Hasn't  it,  Miss  Cora?" 

At  this  point,  it  seemed  necessary  for  Miss  Dobbs  to  re- 
gard the  situation  as  a  whole.  A  wrong  move  here  might 
be  fatal. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  has,"  said  she,  trying  very  hard  to  keep 
from  laughing  in  his  face.  "If  you  put  it  that  way." 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  Henry  Harper  seemed  to  be 
overawed  by  this  admission  on  the  part  of  a  lady  of  great 
experience. 

"I  make  no  claim" — Miss  Dobbs  felt  that  a  little  well- 
timed  assistance  was  called  for — "if  that's  what  you  mean. 
My  reputation's  gone,  but  as  I  am  only  a  girl,  without  a 
shilling,  who  has  to  fight  her  own  battle,  of  course  it's  not 
of  the  slightest  consequence." 

"That's  just  what  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about,"  he  said, 
with  a  simplicity  that  made  her  lip  curl  in  spite  of  the 
strong  will  which  ruled  it.  Zoe  was  right,  it  was  cruelty 
to  children. 

"Talk  away,  then,"  said  Miss  Dobbs,  with  dreary  and 
tragic  coldness. 

"I  just  want  to  do  right.  I  admit  I've  done  wrong. 
But  what  I've  done,  I've  done  in  ignorance.  I  didn't  know 
it  would  be  against  your  reputation  for  me  to  come  here 
constant,  and  to  take  you  on  the  river,  and  go  with  you  to 
the  theater  and  the  Coliseum." 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  you  did,"  said  Cora,  holding  her 
hand  very  carefully  now  that  he  had  been  such  a  fool  as  to 
put  a  weapon  in  it.  "No,  I  suppose  not,  Mr.  Harper." 

The  "Mr."  was  stressed  very  slightly,  but  she  felt  him 
flinch  a  little. 

"Well,  Miss  Cora,"  he  said  huskily,  "it's  like  this.  I 
280 


THE  SAILOR 

just  want   to   do   right   by   you   as   any  other   gentleman 
would." 

"Oh,  do  you,  Mr.  Harper."  She  fixed  him  with  the  eye 
of  a  basilisk. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  the  sweat  broke  out  on  his  fore- 
head. "Whatever  it's  got  to  be." 

She  sensed  the  forehead  rather  than  saw  it.  Every  nerve 
in  her  was  now  alert.  Yet  the  desire  uppermost  was  to 
spit  in  his  face,  or  to  dash  her  fist  in  it  with  all  the  strength 
she  had,  but  at  such  a  moment  she  could  not  afford  to  give 
rein  to  the  woman  within.  She  must  bide  her  time.  The 
fish  was  hooked,  but  it  still  remained  to  land  it. 

"Well,  Mr.  Harper,  I  am  sure  you  are  most  kind.  But 
you  know  better  than  I  can  tell  you  that  there  is  only  one 
thing  you  can  do  under  the  circumstances."  And  Miss  Dobbs 
suddenly  laughed  in  Mr.  Harper's  face,  in  order  to  show 
that  she  was  not  such  a  fool  as  to  treat  his  heroics  seriously. 

"What's  that,  Miss  Cora?"  he  asked,  huskily. 

"What's  that,  Mr.  Harper?  What  innocence!  I  wonder 
where  you  was  brought  up?" 

"Don't  ask  that,  Miss  Cora."  He  could  have  bitten 
out  his  tongue  almost  before  the  words  had  slipped  from 
it. 

But  Miss  Cora  was  not  going  to  be  sidetracked  at  this 
critical  moment  by  a  matter  so  trivial  as  Mr.  Harper's  up- 
bringing. 

"You  take  away  a  straight  girl's  reputation,  you  as  good 
as  ruin  her,  and  then  you  come  and  ask  her  what  you 
should  do  about  it.  What  ho,  she  bumps!"  And  Miss 
Dobbs,  with  an  irrelevance  fully  equal  to  her  final  remark, 
suddenly  flung  herself  down  to  the  further  detriment  of  the 
broken-springed  sofa. 

Mr.  Harper,  however,  was  able  to  recognize  this  as  a 
cry  of  the  soul  of  a  lady  in  agony. 
281 


THE  SAILOR 

"If  you  think  I  ought  to  marry  you,"  he  said,  with  dry 
lips,  "I'll  do  it." 

Miss  Dobbs,  flopping  on  the  sofa,  sat  up  suddenly  wit!)  a 
complete  change  of  manner. 

"It's  not  what  I  think,  Mr.  Harper,"  she  said.  "That 
don't  matter.  It's  what  you  think  that  matters.  If  a  man 
is  a  gentleman,  he  don't  ask  those  sort  of  things." 

"No,  I  suppose  he  doesn't,"  said  Mr.  Harper,  who  sud- 
denly felt  and  saw  the  great  force  of  this.  "Miss  Dobbs 
.  .  .  Cora.  ...  I  ...  I  ...  will  you  marry  me,  Miss 
Cora?" 

The  answer  of  Miss  Cora  was  to  rise  from  the  sofa  in  the 
stress  of  feminine  embarrassment.  But  she  did  not  fall  into 
his  arms,  as  some  ladies  might  have  done;  she  did  not  even 
change  color.  She  merely  said  in  an  extremely  practical 
voice — 

"Harry,  you've  done  right,  and  I'm  glad  you've  acted 
the  toff.  There  was  those  whc  said  you  wouldn't,  but  we'll 
not  mention  names.  However,  all's  well  that  ends  well. 
And  the  sooner  we  get  married  the  better." 

He  made  no  reply.  But  a  slow,  deadly  feeling  had  begun 
to  creep  along  his  spine. 

"Do  you  mind  where  we  are  married,  Harry?" 

"No,"  he  said,  gently,  with  faraway  eyes. 

"I'm  all  for  privacy,"  said  Miss  Dobbs,  in  her  practical 
voice.  "I  hope  you  are." 

"Whatever's  agreeable  to  you  is  agreeable  to  me."  He 
seemed  to  feel  that  that  was  good  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

"Very  well,  then,  Harry,  tomorrow  morning  at  eleven 
I'll  call  for  you,  and  we'll  toddle  round  to  the  Circus  and 
see  what  the  Registrar  has  to  say  to  us." 

"If  that's  agreeable  to  you,  it's  agreeable  to  me,"  he  said, 
sticking   doggedly    to   his   conception   of    the   man    of    the 
world  and  the  English  gentleman. 
282 


THE  SAILOR 

"And  now,  Harry "     But  Cora  suddenly  stopped  in 

the  very  act  of  advancing  upon  him.  He  had  read  her  pur- 
pose, and  she  had  read  his  eyes;  moreover,  she  had  read  the 
look  which  those  eyes  had  been  unable  to  veil.  With  the 
sagacity  upon  which  Miss  Cora  Dobbs  prided  herself — if 
she  happened  to  be  perfectly  sober — she  decided  to  postpone 
any  oscular  demonstration  of  regard  for  Harry  until  the 
next  day. 

XV 

IT  was  not  until  Tuesday  evening  that  Henry  Harper 
informed  the  old  man  who  had  treated  him  with  such 
kindness  that  he  had  decided  to  give  up  his  situation. 
Mr.  Rudge  was  not  surprised.     Now  that  the  young  man's 
time  had  become  so  valuable  his  master  disinterestedly  ap- 
proved this  step,  although  he  would  regret  the  loss  of  such 
a  trustworthy   assistant.      Henry   Harper   then   felt   called 
upon  to  explain  that  he  had  married  Cora  that  afternoon,  and 
that  he  was  about  to  transfer  his  belongings  to  No.   106, 
King  John's  Mansions. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  gone  and  got  mar- 
ried ?"  said  Mr.  Rudge. 

"Yes,  sir.  But  Cora  wanted  it  to  be  kept  very  quiet, 
else  I  should  have  told  you  before." 

"Cora  who?"  asked  his  master,  pushing  up  his  spectacles 
on  to  his  forehead. 

"Cora  Dobbs." 

"Do  you  mean  that  niece  of  Mrs.  Greaves?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Goodness  gracious  me!"  Mr.  Rudge  was  never  moved 
to  this  objurgation  except  under  duress  of  very  high  emo- 
tion. "Goodness  gracious  me  ...  why,  she's  not  respect- 
able!" 

19  283 


THE  SAILOR 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  there  you  are  wrong."  The 
young  man  addressed  his  master  with  an  independence  and 
a  dignity  that  twenty-four  hours  ago  would  not  have  been 
possible.  "Cora  is  quite  respectable  and  .  .  .  and  Cora's 
a  lady.  If  there's  those  who  think  otherwise,  it's  my  fault 
for  .  .  .  for  compromising  her."  To  Mrs.  Henry  Harper 
belonged  the  credit  for  the  word  "compromising,"  although 
it  was  worthy  of  W.  M.  Thackeray  himself. 

"Goodness  gracious  me!"  Mr.  Rudge  mopped  his  face 
with  a  profuse  red  handkerchief.  "Didn't  I  most  strongly 
warn  you  against  her  when  I  found  her  that  morning  in 
the  shop?" 

"You  have  never  once  mentioned  Cora  to  me,  sir,"  said 
Henry  Harper  respectfully.  "And  I'm  very  glad  you 
haven't,  because  a  great  wrong's  been  done  her." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  she  was  up  to  no  good,  and  that  you 
had  better  be  careful?" 

"No,  sir,  you  never  said  a  single  word  to  me." 

"I  certainly  meant  to  do  so  ...  but  that's  my  unfor- 
tunate memory.  I  remember  I  had  Charles  XII.  of  Sweden 
in  my  head  at  the  time;  practically  three  hundred  pages 
of  Volume  XXXIII.  But  it's  no  excuse.  I'll  never  be  able 
to  forgive  myself  for  not  having  warned  you.  It's  a  pity 
she's  Mrs.  Greaves'  niece,  but  I'm  as  sure  as  Tilly  sacked 
Magdeburg  that  that  girl  Cora  is  not  respectable." 

"You  are  quite  mistaken  in  that,  sir,"  said  Henry  Harper, 
with  a  dignity  of  an  entirely  new  kind,  "because  she  is  now 
my  wife." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Henry."  Mr.  Rudge  had  begun  to 
realize  that  he  was  letting  his  tongue  run  away  with  him. 
"I'd  forgotten  that.  I  dare  say  I  have  been  misinformed." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  am  quite  sure  of  that.     You  have  no  idea 
how  careful  she  is  in  that  way.     It  is  because  she  is  so 
careful  that  I've  married  her." 
284 


THE  SAILOR 

"Goodness  gracious  me!"  said  Mr.  Rudge. 

"She  is  most  particular.  And  so  are  all  her  lady  friends. 
And  it's  because  I've  been  going  to  her  flat  and  getting  her 
talked  about  and  going  to  the  Coliseum  with  her,  that  I 
thought  I  ought  to  act  the  gentleman." 

"Goodness  gracious  me!  I  wouldn't  have  had  this  hap- 
pen for  a  thousand  pounds." 

"I  wouldn't,  either,  sir,"  said  Henry  Harper. 


XVI 

WHEN,  at  the  instance  of  the  lady  who  was  now  his 
wife,  the  young  man  removed  his  few  belongings 
to  No.  106,  King  John's  Mansions,  his  first  feel- 
ing was  that  he  had  entered  quite  a  different  world.  He  was 
very  sorry  to  leave  Mr.  Rudge,  who  had  been  a  true  friend 
and  to  whom  he  had  become  deeply  attached.  Also  he  was 
sorry  to  leave  that  comfortable  sitting-room  with  all  its  asso- 
ciations of  profitable  labor  which  embodied  by  far  the  best 
hours  his  life  had  known.  As  for  the  books  in  the  shop,  he 
would  miss  them  dreadfully. 

It  was  a  wrench  to  leave  these  things.  But  at  the  call 
of  duty  it  had  to  be.  Cora  regarded  the  change  as  inevitable, 
and  she  saw  that  it  was  made  at  once.  From  the  very 
hour  of  their  marriage,  she  took  absolute  charge  of  him.  It 
was  due  to  her  infinitely  greater  knowledge  of  life  and  of 
the  world  that  one  who  was  so  much  a  child  in  these  matters 
should  defer  to  her  in  everything.  He  was  expected  to  do 
as  he  was  told,  and  for  the  most  part  he  was  perfectly  will- 
ing to  fulfil  that  obligation. 

Almost  the  first  question  she  asked  him,  as  soon  as  they 
were  man  and  wife,  was  what  he  had  done  with  the  check 
for  three  hundred  pounds?  Her  highly  developed  business 
285 


THE  SAILOR 

instinct  regarded  it  as  more  or  less  satisfactory,  that  at  the 
suggestion  of  Mr.  Rudge  he  had  opened  an  account  at  a 
bank.  It  was  a  very  sensible  thing  to  have  done,  but  it 
would  be  even  more  sensible  if  the  money  was  paid  over  to 
her.  She  also  felt  that  all  sums  he  earned  in  the  future 
should  be  banked  in  her  name.  There  were  many  advan- 
tages in  such  a  course.  In  the  first  place,  only  one  bank- 
ing account  would  be  necessary,  and  she  always  favored 
simplicity  in  matters  of  business.  Again,  their  money  would 
be  much  safer  with  her:  she  understood  its  value  far  better 
than  he.  Again,  it  would  be  wise  if  she  made  all  financial 
arrangements ;  a  man  who  had  his  head  full  of  writing  would 
naturally  not  want  to  be  bothered  with  such  tiresome  things, 
and  he  would  have  the  more  time  to  use  his  pen. 

These  arguments  were  so  logical  that  Harry  felt  their 
force.  There  was  no  doubt  that  Cora's  head  was  much 
better  than  his.  Besides,  as  she  said,  with  a  penetration 
which  was  flattering,  he  lived  in  a  world  of  his  own,  and  she 
was  quite  sure  he  ought  not  to  be  worried  by  things  of  that 
kind. 

Up  to  a  point,  this  was  true.  The  world  Henry  Harper 
lived  in  at  present  was  largely  of  his  own  creation ;  and  he 
was  content  that  the  wife  he  had  married  should  take  these 
trite  burdens  from  his  shoulders.  Moreover,  at  first  he  did 
not  regret  Mr.  Rudge  and  the  old  privacy  as  much  as  he 
thought  he  would.  Cora  was  by  no  means  deficient  in  com- 
mon sense,  and  having  had  what  she  knew  was  a  great  stroke 
of  luck,  she  determined  to  show  herself  worthy  of  it  by 
doing  her  best  "to  settle  down." 

There  was  prudence  and  wisdom  in  this.  Mrs.  Henry 
Harper  had  been  a  scholar  in  a  very  hard  school,  and  she 
now  hoped  to  profit  by  its  teaching.  Therefore,  she  tried 
all  she  knew  to  make  the  young  man  comfortable,  not  merely 
because  she  liked  him  as  much  as  it  was  possible  for  her  to 
286 


THE  SAILOR 

like  any  man,  but  also  for  the  more  practical  reason  that 
he  might  begin  to  like  her. 

At  first  his  work,  which  meant  so  much  more  to  him  than 
ever  Cora  could,  suffered  far  less  than  he  had  feared.  To 
be  sure,  he  missed  the  books  terribly.  He  had  not  realized 
the  value  of  those  serried  rows  in  the  shop  until  the  time 
had  come  to  do  without  them.  But  Mr.  Rudge,  in  saying 
good-by  to  him  with  distress  in  his  honest  eyes,  had  promised 
that  the  run  of  the  shelves  should  always  be  his. 

Now  there  was  no  longer  the  bookshop  to  look  after,  he 
had  more  time  for  reading  and  writing,  and  for  gaining  gen- 
eral knowledge.  Also  Cora  had  the  wisdom  to  trouble  him 
little.  She  stayed  in  bed  most  of  the  morning,  and  as  Royal 
Daylight  had  strict  instructions  to  walk  delicately  in  going 
about  her  household  duties,  Henry  Harper  with  his  habit 
of  rising  early  was  always  able  to  count  on  a  long  and  un- 
interrupted morning's  work. 

In  the  afternoon,  Cora  generally  went  forth  to  visit  her 
friends.  And  as  she  showed  no  desire  for  Harry  to  accom- 
pany her,  there  were  so  many  more  precious  hours  in  which 
he  could  do  as  he  liked,  in  which  his  fancy  could  expand. 
In  the  evening,  however,  his  trials  began.  After  the  first 
few  days  of  matrimony,  Cora  developed  a  passion  for  res- 
taurants, whither  she  expected  him  to  accompany  her.  As  a 
rule  they  dined  at  the  Roc  at  the  bottom  of  the  Avenue, 
where  there  was  music  and  company,  and  here  they  some- 
times fell  in  with  one  or  another  of  Cora's  circle.  Then 
about  twice  a  week  they  would  go  on  to  a  theater  or  a  music 
hall,  and  have  supper  at  another  restaurant.  The  young 
man  soon  grew  aware  that  if  Cora's  attention  was  not  fully 
occupied,  she  became  restless  and  irritable. 

These  evenings  abroad  gave  Henry  Harper  a  feeling  of 
profound  discomfort.  But  he  did  not  complain.  It  would 
not  have  been  fair  to  Cora,  who,  as  she  proudly  said,  gave 
287 


THE  SAILOR 

him  a  free  hand  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  And  even  the 
publicity  of  restaurant  life,  against  his  deepest  instinct  as  it 
was,  had  compensations  quite  apart  from  the  performance  of 
duty.  There  was  much  to  be  learned  from  these  places. 
The  Sailor  had  a  remarkable  faculty  of  minute  observation. 
The  genie  within  never  slept.  Other  worlds  were  swim- 
ming into  his  ken.  Golden  hours  were  being  stolen  from 
his  labors,  but  he  was  gaining  first-hand  knowledge  of  men 
and  things. 

These  early  days  of  married  life  were  in  some  respects 
the  most  valuable  the  Sailor  had  yet  known.  He  was  no 
longer  living  entirely  in  his  dreams.  So  much  was  coming 
into  his  purview  which  he  could  not  grasp,  to  which  he 
had  hardly  a  clue,  that  he  had  an  overmastering  desire  for 
more  exact  information. 

For  example,  the  talk  of  Cora's  numerous  friends  was 
almost  a  foreign  language,  which  left  him  as  a  rule  with  a 
sense  of  hopeless  ignorance  and  inferiority.  But  this  merely 
increased  the  wish  to  catch  up.  Just  as  a  surprisingly  brief 
four  years  ago  he  had  been  tormented  with  an  almost  insane 
desire  to  read  and  write  and  to  learn  geography  and  arith- 
metic, so  now  he  had  a  terrible  craving  to  enter  a  world  in 
which  Cora  moved  with  such  ease  and  assurance. 

The  chief  difficulty  now  was  the  multiplicity  of  worlds 
around  him.  There  was  his  own  private  world  which  none 
could  enter  but  himself.  That  was  a  thing  apart.  It  was 
made  up  of  the  awful  memories  of  his  youth:  of  Auntie,  of 
the  slushy  streets  of  Blackhampton,  of  special  editions,  of  the 
police,  of  a  December  night  on  the  railway,  of  Mother,  of 
Mr.  Thompson,  of  the  Old  Man,  of  the  half-deck  of  the 
Margaret  Carey,  of  the  Island  of  San  Pedro,  of  the  China- 
man, of  Klondyke,  of  Ginger,  of  Auntie  again,  of  Miss 
Foldal,  of  the  final  catastrophe;  all  these  memories  lay  at 
*he  back  of  the  world  he  inhabited — these  memories  and 
288 


THE  SAILOR 

the  wonderful  books  he  was  always  studying.  Yet  enthroned 
above  them  all  was  the  Aladdin's  lamp  that  glowed  like  a 
star  in  the  right-hand  corner  of  his  brain.  But  even  that 
seemed  to  be  related  to  other  strange,  ineluctable  forces 
which  lay  deep  down  at  the  root  of  his  being,  in  the  center 
of  which  was  the  thing  he  called  himself. 

This  private  cosmos,  however,  wide  as  it  was,  was  only 
an  imperceptible  speck  of  the  whole.  Yet  it  was  all  im- 
portant, because  he  felt  it  was  the  only  one  he  would  ever 
really  know.  As  for  this  world  of  Cora's,  it  was  quite  out- 
side his  experience.  Even  the  simplest  objects  in  it  did  not 
present  themselves  at  the  same  angle  of  vision.  They  were 
man  and  wife  and  went  about  together,  but  the  worlds  they 
inhabited  were  so  diverse  that  he  soon  felt  it  would  never 
be  possible  to  merge  them  in  one  another. 

Then,  too,  there  was  the  cosmogony  of  Mr.  Rudge.  That 
was  a  vastly  different  matter  from  his  own  and  Cora's,  and 
the  great  world  of  the  Roc  and  the  Domino  where  there  was 
continual  music  and  people  drank  things  called  liqueurs  and 
wore  evening  clothes.  Again,  there  was  the  world  of  his 
friend  Mr.  Ambrose,  and  beyond  this  again  was  the  world  of 
those  wonderful  people  whom  he  used  to  watch  with  such 
solemn  delight  and  curiosity  when  he  paid  his  Sunday  morn- 
ing pilgrimages  to  Hyde  Park. 


XVII 

EARLY  in  November  "The  Adventures  of  Dick  Smith* 
on  the  High  Seas"  was  published  by  a  firm  with 
which  Mr.  Ambrose  was  connected.     It  was  clear 
from  the  first  that  it  was  going  to  succeed.    The  progress  of 
the  story  through  the  chaste  pages  of  Brown's  had  brought 
many  new  readers  to  that  old  and  respected  periodical.    The 
289 


THE  SAILOR 

editor  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  it  was  the  best  serial 
story  the  magazine  had  had  for  years,  and  as  soon  as  "Dick 
Smith"  appeared  as  a  book  it  had  many  friends. 

The  notices  in  the  papers,  which  Mr.  Ambrose  took  the 
trouble  to  send  to  Henry  Harper  from  time  to  time,  were 
kind  to  the  verge  of  indiscretion.  Almost  without  exception 
they  summed  up  the  modest  and  unpretending  story  in  the 
same  way :  it  was  a  thing  entirely  new.  The  writer  saw  and 
felt  life  with  extraordinary  intensity,  and  he  had  the  power 
of  painting  it  with  a  vivid  force  that  was  astonishing.  The 
effect  was  heightened  by  a  quaintness  of  style  which  seemed 
to  give  the  impression  of  a  foreigner  of  great  perception  us- 
ing a  tongue  with  which  he  was  unfamiliar.  Yet,  allowing 
for  every  defect,  there  was  a  wonderful  power  of  narrative, 
not  unworthy  of  a  Bunyan  or  a  Defoe.  A  spell  was  cast 
upon  the  reader's  mind,  which  made  it  very  difficult  for 
those  who  began  the  book  to  lay  it  down  until  the  last  page 
had  been  read. 

Henry  Harper  was  quite  unconscious  of  the  stir  he  had 
begun  to  make  in  literary  circles.  One  aspect  only  of  a 
literary  success  had  anything  to  say  to  him  at  first,  and  that 
was  purely  monetary.  Moreover,  Edward  Ambrose,  un- 
affectedly proud  of  being  the  sponsor  of  "the  new  Steven- 
son"— a  generalization  so  crude  as  to  be  very  wide  of  the 
mark — was  wise  enough  to  stand  between  the  personality 
of  this  half  formed  but  rapidly  developing  man  of  genius 
and  the  curiosity  of  his  admirers. 

The  young  man  was  more  than  content  that  Edward 
Ambrose  should  take  charge  of  his  literary  affairs  and  "dry 
nurse  him"  through  these  early  and  in  some  ways  very 
critical  months  of  his  fame.  And  child  of  nature  as  the 
Sailor  was,  it  was  a  task  that  could  only  have  been  carried 
through  by  a  man  of  tact  and  liberality  of  mind. 

One  day,  at  the  beginning  of  December,  when  Henry 
290 


THE  SAILOR 

Harper  had  been  married  nearly  six  weeks — the  visit  to  the 
Registrar  round  the  corner  in  the  Circus  had  coincided 
almost  exactly  with  the  book  publication  of  the  "Adventures 
of  Dick  Smith  on  the  High  Seas" — he  received  a  letter  from 
his  friend.  It  said: 

Bury  Street, 

Tuesday. 
MY  DEAR  HARPER, 

If  you  are  free,  come  and  dine  here  on  Friday  next  at 
eight.     There  will  be  two  or  three  men   (no  ladies!),  old 
friei.ds,   and  your  humble  admirers,  who  would  like  very 
much  to  meet  you.     Do  come  if  you  can. 
Yours  ever, 

EDWARD  AMBROSE. 

The  Sailor's  first  instinct,  in  spite  of  his  confidence  in 
Mr.  Ambrose  and  a  liking  for  him  that  now  amounted  to 
affection,  was  to  decline  this  invitation.  He  was  well  aware 
that  he  was  not  fitted  by  education  and  by  social  opportunity 
to  take  his  place  as  the  equal  of  Mr.  Ambrose  and  his  friends. 
Therefore,  a  summons  even  in  these  siren  terms,  worried  him 
a  good  deal.  It  seemed  disloyal  to  deny  such  a  friend  for 
such  a  reason;  but  he  had  learned  that  the  genie  who  now 
accompanied  him  day  and  night  \vherever  he  went,  had  one 
very  sinister  quality.  It  had  a  power  of  making  him  mor- 
bidly sensitive  in  regard  to  his  own  deficiencies. 

In  order  to  end  the  state  of  uncertainty  into  which  the 
letter  had  thrown  him,  he  showed  it  to  Cora.  She  advised 
him  to  accept  the  invitation.  This  Mr.  Ambrose,  as  she 
knew,  had  helped  him  very  much,  and  it  would  be  wise, 
she  thought,  for  Harry  to  meet  these  friends  of  his,  who  no 
doubt  would  be  literary  men  like  Mr.  Ambrose  himself. 

Cora  having  made  his  mind  up  for  him,  the  young  man 
determined  to  do  his  best  to  lay  his  timidity  aside.  After  all, 
there  was  nothing  of  which  to  be  ashamed.  He  was  what  he 
291 


THE  SAILOR 

was;  and  it  would  be  the  part  of  loyalty  to  a  true  friend  to 
believe  that  no  harm  could  come  of  dining  with  him. 

All  the  same,  the  evening  of  Friday,  December  13,  was 
in  the  nature  of  a  great  ordeal  for  Henry  Harper.  Why  he 
should  have  had  this  feeling  about  it  was  more  than  he  could 
say.  But  having  duly  written  and  posted  his  acceptance,  he 
knew  no  peace  of  mind  until  that  ominous  day  was  through. 

The  evening  itself,  when  it  came,  began  badly.  Cora, 
whom  he  left  at  the  door  of  the  Roc  at  a  little  after  half  past 
seven,  told  him  exactly  how  to  get  to  Bury  Street.  He 
would  have  plenty  of  time  to  walk  as  he  had  not  to  be  there 
until  eight.  But  either  he  did  not  follow  her  instructions 
as  carefully  as  he  ought  to  have  done,  or  he  was  in  a  chaotic 
state  of  mind,  for  things  went  hopelessly  awry.  He  tcok 
several  wrong  turnings,  had  twice  to  be  put  right  by  a  police- 
man, began  to  wish  miserably,  when  it  was  too  late,  that  he 
had  taken  a  taxi,  and  in  the  end  arrived  nearly  twenty 
minutes  after  eight  at  Edward  Ambrose's  door. 

It  was  a  flustered,  guilty,  generally  discomposed  Henry 
Harper  who  was  admitted  by  Mr.  Ambrose's  servant,  whom 
he  addressed  as  "Sir."  The  host  and  his  two  other  guests 
were  waiting  patiently  to  begin  dinner. 

"Here  you  are,"  said  Edward  Ambrose,  coming  forward 
to  greet  the  young  man  almost  before  he  was  announced. 
"I  know  what  has  happened,  so  don't  apologize.  No  good 
Londoner  apologizes  for  being  late,  my  dear  fellow."  He 
then  introduced  Henry  Harper  to  his  two  friends,  and  they 
went  in  to  dinner. 

The  young  man  was  so  much  upset  at  first  by  the  absence 
of  a  dinner  jacket,  that  he  felt  he  must  take  an  early 
opportunity  of  apologizing  for  that  also.  This  he  accord- 
ingly did  with  the  greatest  simplicity,  and  excused  himself 
on  the  plea  that  he  had  no  evening  clothes  at  present,  but 
was  intending  to  get  some. 

292 


THE  SAILOR 

Before  Edward  Ambrose  could  make  any  remark,  his 
servant,  of  whom  Henry  Harper  was  really  more  in  awe 
than  of  anyone  else — he  looked  so  much  more  imposing  than 
either  his  master  or  his  master's  guests — was  asking  whether 
he  would  have  sherry. 

"No,  thank  you,  I'm  teetotal,"  he  said  to  the  servant  in 
answer  to  the  invitation.  "At  least,  I'm  almost  teetotal." 
For  he  suddenly  remembered  that  since  his  marriage  he 
had  rather  fallen  away  from  grace,  yet  not  to  any  great 
extent. 

"Have  just  half  a  glass,"  said  Ambrose.  "I'm  rather 
proud  of  this  sherry,  although  that's  not  a  wise  thing  to  say." 
The  host  laughed  his  rich  note,  which  in  the  ear  of  Henry 
Harper  was  even  finer  than  Klondyke's,  if  such  an  admis- 
sion was  not  sacrilege ;  and  his  two  friends,  to  whom  the 
latter  part  of  his  remark  was  addressed,  echoed  his  laugh" 
with  notes  of  their  own  that  were  almost  equally  musical. 

"A  simple  beverage,  warranted  harmless,"  said  the  host 
as  he  raised  his  glass,  making  a  rather  feeble  attempt  to 
secure  his  line  of  retreat. 

"Plutocrat,"  said  his  friend  Ellis,  who  was  in  the  Foreign 
Office,  and  who  dignified  his  leisure  with  writing  plays. 

"It's  very  nice  indeed,  sir,"  said  Henry  Harper,  speaking 
as  he  felt.  He  was  convinced  that  this  was  the  nicest  wine 
he  had  ever  tasted — to  be  sure,  he  had  tasted  little — and 
that  it  called  for  sincere  commendation. 

This  evening  was  a  landmark  in  the  Sailor's  life.  Nerv- 
ously anxious  as  he  had  been  at  the  outset,  the  ease  and 
the  simplicity  of  his  three  companions,  their  considered  yet 
not  too  obviously  considered  kindness  towards  him,  the  dis- 
creet pains  they  took  to  establish  him  on  a  basis  of  equality, 
could  hardly  fail  of  their  effect.  Very  soon  Henry  Harper 
began  to  respond  to  this  new  and  subtly  delightful  atmos- 
phere as  a  flower  responds  to  the  sun. 


THE  SAILOR 

He  had  never  imagined  that  any  dinner  could  be  so 
agreeable  as  this  one.  He  had  never  dreamed  of  food  so 
choice  or  cooked  so  deliciously,  or  wines  of  such  an  exquisite 
flavor.  He  had  never  seen  a  room  like  that,  or  such  beautiful 
silver,  or  such  flowers  as  those  in  the  bowl  in  the  center  of 
the  table.  All  these  things  addressed  a  clear  call  to  the 
soul  of  Henry  Harper,  a  call  it  had  never  heard  before. 

Mr.  Ambrose  was  a  delightful  host,  and  not  less  delight- 
ful were  his  friend  Mr.  Ellis  and  his  other  friend  Mr. 
Barrington,  yet  perhaps  Mr.  Portman,  the  servant,  who  bore 
himself  with  apostolic  calm  and  dignity,  was  really  the  most 
wonderful  of  all. 

Somehow,  these  three  gentlemen,  Mr.  Ambrose,  Mr.  Ellis, 
and  Mr.  Barrington,  continually  recalled,  by  little  things 
they  said  and  the  way  in  which  they  said  them,  no  less  a 
person  than  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin.  And  to  recall  that  gen- 
tleman was  to  evoke  the  even  more  august  shade  of  the 
immortal  Klondyke. 

By  an  odd  chance,  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin  was  to  be  brought 
to  the  mind  of  Henry  Harper  in  a  manner  even  more  direct 
before  dinner  was  over.  By  the  time  they  had  come  to  the 
apples  and  pears  and  Mr.  Ambrose  had  persuaded  him  to 
have  half  a  glass  of  port  wine,  they  were  all  talking  freely 
and  frankly  together — Henry  Harper  a  little  less  freely  and 
frankly  than  the  others,  no  doubt,  but  yet  having  settled 
down  to  enjoy  himself  more  thoroughly  than  he  could  ever 
have  thought  to  be  possible — when  the  name  of  Mr.  Esme 
Plorrobin  was  suddenly  mentioned.  It  was  either  Mr.  Ellis 
or  Mr.  Barrington  who  mentioned  it.  The  young  man  was 
not  sure  which;  indeed,  throughout  the  evening  he  was 
not  quite  sure  which  was  Mr.  Ellis  and  which  was  Mr. 
Barrington.  Anyhow,  after  the  host  had  told  an  anecdote 
which  made  them  laugh  consumedly,  although  the  Sailor 
vras  not  quite  able  to  see  the  point  of  it,  Mr.  Ellis-Barring- 
294 


THE  SAILOR 

ton  made  the  remark,  "That  story  somehow  reminds  one  of 
Esme  Horrobin." 

"Alas,  poor  Esme!"  sighed  Mr.  Ellis-Barrington  with 
mock  pathos.  "It's  odd,  but  this  story  of  Ned's,  which  really 
seems  to  handle  facts  rather  recklessly,  recalls  that  distin- 
guished shade.  Alas,  poor  Horrobin!" 

All  three — Mr.  Ellis,  Mr.  Harrington,  and  their  host — 
laughed  at  the  mention  of  that  name,  but  to  the  acute  ear 
of  Henry  Harper  it  seemed  that  their  mirth  had  suddenly 
taken  a  new  note. 

"You  never  met  Horrobin,"  said  Mr.  Ellis-Barrington  to 
the  Sailor.  "We  were  all  at  Gamaliel  with  him." 

Mr.  Ellis-Barrington  was  wrong  to  assume  that  Mr. 
Harper  had  never  met  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin.  Mr.  Harper 
had  not  been  with  Mr.  Horrobin  at  Gamaliel,  but  he  had 
been  with  him  at  Bowdon  House. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Harper,  feeling  honorably  glad  that 
he  could  play  this  part  in  the  conversation.  "I  have  met  a 
Mr.  Horrobin  of  Gamaliel  College,  Oxford."  Somehow, 
the  young  man  could  not  repress  a  thrill  of  pride  in  his  ex- 
cellent memory  for  names  and  places. 

"Not  the  great  Esme?"  cried  Mr.  Ellis-Barrington  with 
serio-comic  incredulity. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin,"  said  Henry  Harper  stoutly. 

"Do  tell  us  where  you  met  the  great  man?"  The  voice 
of  .Edward  Ambrose  was  asking  the  question  almost  as  if  it 
felt  that  it  ought  not  to  do  so. 

"I  met  him,  sir,  when  I  was  staying  at  Bowdon  House. 
He  was  staying  there,  too,  and  he  used  to  talk  to  me  about 
the  'Satyricon'  of  Petronius  Arbiter  and  the  Feast  of  Trimal- 
chio." 

For  one  brief  but  deadly  instant,  there  was  a  pause.  The 
odd  precision  with  which  the  carefully  treasured  words  were 
spoken  was  uncanny.  But  the  three  friends  who  had  been 
295 


THE  SAILOR 

with  the  great  Esme  Horrobin  at  Gamaliel  somehow  felt 
that  an  abyss  had  opened  under  their  feet. 

Edward  Ambrose  was  the  first  to  speak.  But  the  laugh 
of  gay  charm  was  no  longer  on  his  lips.  There  was  a  look 
almost  of  horror  in  those  honest  eyes. 

"That's  very  interesting,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  with 
a  change  of  tone  so  slight  that  it  was  hardly  possible  to  detect 
it.  "Interesting  and  curious  that  you  should  have  met 
Horrobin."  And  then  with  a  return  to  carelessness,  as 
though  no  answer  was  required  to  a  merely  conventional 
inquiry:  "What's  he  doing  now,  do  you  know?" 

The  Sailor's  almost  uncanny  power  of  memory  was  equal 
even  to  that  question. 

"He's  bear-leading  the  aristocracy,"  said  the  young  man, 
with  a  proud  exactitude  of  phrase. 

"Oh,  really!" 

But  in  spite  of  the  adroitness  of  the  host,  the  tact  of  Mr. 
Ellis,  and  Mr.  Barrington's  feeling  for  the  nuances,  another 
pause  followed.  For  one  dark  instant  it  was  by  no  means 
clear  to  all  three  of  them  that  their  legs  were  not  being 
pulled  rather  badly.  This  rare  and  strange  young  sea  mon- 
ster with  a  primeval  simplicity  of  speech  and  manner,  who 
had  just  absentmindedly  quenched  his  thirst  from  his  finger 
bowl,  might  not  be  all  that  he  appeared.  It  seemed  hardly 
possible  to  doubt  the  bona  fides  of  such  a  curiously  charm- 
ing child  of  nature,  but.  .  .  . 

For  another  brief  and  deadly  moment,  silence  reigned. 
But  in  that  moment,  Mr.  Henry  Harper,  with  his  new  and 
rather  terrible  sensitiveness,  was  beginning  to  fear  that  he 
had  committed  a  solecism.  He  remembered  with  a  pang 
that  Marlow's  Dictionary  had  been  unable  to  correlate  "bear- 
leading"  and  "aristocracy."  Clearly  he  had  done  wrong  to 
make  use  of  a  phrase  whose  significance  he  did  not  fully 
understand,  even  though  it  was  the  phrase  most  certainly 
296 


THE  SAILOR 

used  by  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin.  It  was  pretending  to  a  knowl- 
edge you  didn't  possess,  and  these  gentlemen  who  had  all 
been  to  college  and  to  whom,  therefore,  pretence  of  any  kind 
was  entirely  hateful.  .  .  . 

"It's  so  like  him!"  The  rare  laugh  of  Edward  Ambrose 
had  come  suddenly  to  the  young  man's  aid.  But  the  ques- 
tion for  gods  and  men  was:  did  Mr.  Ambrose  mean  it  was 
so  like  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin  to  be  bear-leading  the  aristocracy, 
or  so  like  Mr.  Henry  Harper  to  be  using  a  phrase  whose 
meaning  was  beyond  him? 

"Alas,  poor  Esme!"  sighed  Mr.  Ellis-Barrington. 

The  Sailor  echoed  that  sigh.  His  relief  was  profound 
that  after  all  a  pause  so  deadly  had  not  been  caused  by  him- 
self. 

XVIII 

HENRY  HARPER  at  this  period  of  his  life  was  in 
the  grip  of  a  single  passion ;  the  passion  to  know. 
Already  he  had  learned  that  books,  wonderful, 
enchanting  as  they  were,  formed  only  one  avenue  to  the 
realms  of  truth.    He  had  now  come  to  realize  that  there  are 
many  secrets  in  earth  and  heaven  which  books,  even  the 
wisest  of  them,  are  not  able  to  disclose. 

Of  late,  he  had  begun  to  reinforce  the  thousand  and  one 
volumes  placed  at  his  disposal  by  Mr.  Rudge  with  the  daily 
and  weekly  newspapers,  and  those  contemporaries  of  Brown's 
which  came  out  once  a  month.  He  had  been  quite  con- 
founded by  the  reception  given  to  "Dick  Smith"  by  the  pub- 
lic press.  A  thing  so  trivial  seemed  unrelated  to  the  life 
of  incomprehensible  complexity  in  which  he  lived.  Besides, 
he  was  convinced  that  the  merit  of  the  story  had  been  ex- 
aggerated, as  it  no  doubt  had,  in  accordance  with  a  gener- 
ous custom  of  giving  a  newcomer  a  fair  chance.  Still,  the 
297 


THE  SAILOR 

author  felt  in  his  own  mind  that  whatever  the  reviewers 
found  in  "Dick  Smith"  to  admire  was  to  be  laid  to  the  door 
of  the  friend  who  had  made  it  possible  for  rhe  story  to 
reach  the  world. 

One  of  the  first  fruits  of  this  new  craving  for  exact  knowl- 
edge was  to  prove  bitterly  embarrassing.  The  Sailor  had 
been  haunted  for  several  weeks  by  a  report,  which  he  had 
found  among  Mr.  Rudge's  miscellaneous  collection,  of  the 
royal  commission  which  sat  to  inquire  into  the  terrible  case 
of  Adolf  Beck.  He  became  obsessed  by  the  thought  that  the 
apparatus  of  the  criminal  law  in  a  free  country  could  fasten 
bonds  on  an  entirely  innocent  person,  could  successfully  re- 
sist all  attempts  to  cast  them  off,  and  when  finally  pinned 
down  and  exposed  to  public  censure  could  easily  evoke  a  sec- 
ond line  of  defense,  which,  under  juridical  forms,  freed  it 
of  blame  in  the  matter. 

To  such  an  extent  did  the  affair  react  upon  the  Sailor's 
mind  that  when  he  called  one  afternoon  upon  Edward  Am- 
brose in  Pall  Mall,  he  had  to  make  a  sad  confession.  He 
had  been  so  much  troubled  by  it  that  he  had  not  been  able 
to  work. 

"Ah,  but  there  we  come  to  the  core  of  official  England," 
said  Edward  Ambrose.  "Such  miscarriages  of  justice  hap- 
pen in  every  country  in  the  world,  but  the  commission  which 
solemnly  justifies  them  on  the  ground  of  indisputable  com- 
mon sense  could  only  have  happened  in  this  land  of  ours." 

The  young  man  was  grateful  for  the  tone  of  indignation. 
It  was  something  to  know  there  was  one  man  in  the  world 
who  agreed  in  sum  with  a  certain  trite  formula  which  was 
all  he  had  to  work  by.  It  had  come  to  him  by  accident  on 
the  Margaret  Carey.  .  .  .  Right  is  right,  and  wrong  is  no 
man's  right. 

"You  should  go  to  the  Old  Bailey  one  day  and  hear  a 
trial,"  said  Edward  Ambrose.  "All  things  that  are  con- 
298 


THE  SAILOR 

earned  with  reality  might  help  you  just  now.  I  dare  say  it 
will  hurt  you  horribly;  but  if  you  are  not  unlucky  in  the 
judge,  it  may  help  to  restore  your  faith  in  your  country." 

"Yes,  sir,  I'll  go  there  one  day,  as  you  advise  me  to," 
said  Henry  Harper,  as  a  boy  in  the  fourth  form  who  was 
young  for  his  age  might  have  said  it;  and  then  with  curious 
simplicity:  "But  I  won't  much  fancy  going  by  myself." 

"I'll  come  with  you,"  said  Edward  Ambrose,  "if  that  is 
how  you  feel  about  it." 

Thus  it  was  that  one  evening,  about  a  fortnight  later, 
Henry  Harper  received  a  postcard,  which  said: 

Meet  me  outside  O.  B.  10.30  tomorrow.  Murder  trial: 
a  strange  and  terrible  drama  of  passion  for  two  students  of 
the  human  comedy!  E.  A. 

On  the  following  morning,  the  Sailor  had  already  mingled 
with  the  crowd  outside  the  Old  Bailey  when,  punctual  to 
the  minute,  he  was  joined  by  his  friend. 

"It's  brave  of  you  to  face  it,"  was  his  greeting. 

Mr.  Ambrose  little  knew  the  things  he  had  faced  in  ths 
course  of  his  five  and  twenty  years  of  life,  was  the  thought 
that  ran  in  the  mind  of  the  Sailor. 

They  made  their  way  in,  and  became  witnesses  of  the 
drama  that  the  law  was  preparing  to  unfold. 

The  judge  began  the  proceedings,  or  rather  the  pro- 
ceedings began  themselves,  with  a  kind  of  grotesque  dignity. 
After  "the  jury  had  been  sworn,  the  prisoner  was  brought  into 
the  dock.  Henry  Harper  gazed  at  him  with  an  emotion  of 
dull  horror.  In  an  instant,  he  had  recognized  Mr.  Thomp- 
son, the  mate  of  the  Margaret  Carey. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  it  was  he.  Alexander  Thomp- 
son was  the  name  given  in  the  indictment ;  besides,  the  Sailor 
would  have  known  anywhere  that  shaggy  and  hirsute  man 
who  had  cast  such  a  shadow  across  his  youth.  There  he  was, 
20  299 


THE  SAILOR 

that  grim  figure!  He  had  changed,  and  yet  he  had  not 
changed.  The  long,  lean,  angular  body  was  the  same  in 
every  awkward  line,  but  the  deadly  pallor  of  the  face  was 
horrible  to  see.  It  was  Mr.  Thompson  right  enough,  and 
yet  it  was  not  Mr.  Thompson  at  all. 

A  surge  of  memories  came  upon  Henry  Harper  as  he  sat 
in  that  court.  They  were  so  terrible  that  he  could  hardly 
endure  them.  He  did  not  hear  a  word  that  was  being 
spoken  by  the  barrister  who,  in  even  and  impartial  tones, 
was  reciting  the  details  of  a  savage  but  not  ignoble  crime. 
The  Sailor  was  thousands  of  miles  away  in  the  Pacific;  the 
groves  of  the  Island  of  San  Pedro  were  rising  through  the 
morning  mists;  he  could  hear  the  plop-plop  of  the  sharks 
in  the  water;  he  could  hear  the  Old  Man  coming  up  on 
deck. 

"That  man  looks  capable  of  anything,"  whispered  Ed- 
ward Ambrose. 

The  Sailor  had  always  been  clear  upon  that  point.  There 
was  the  drive  to  the  docks  in  a  cab  through  the  rain  of  the 
November  night  in  his  mind.  Again  he  was  a  helpless  waif 
of  the  streets  seated  opposite  Jack  the  Ripper.  He  almost 
wanted  to  scream. 

"Would  you  rather  not  stay?"  whispered  his  friend. 

"I'm  not  feeling  very  well,"  said  Henry  Harper;  there- 
upon they  left  the  court  and  went  out  into  the  street. 

They  walked  along  Holborn  in  complete  silence.  To  the 
Sailor  the  fellowship,  the  security,  the  friendliness  of  that 
crowded  street  were  a  great  relief.  His  soul  was  in  the 
grip  of  awful  memories.  Even  the  man  at  his  side  could 
not  dispel  them.  Mr.  Ambrose  was  much  farther  away 
just  now  than  the  Old  Man,  the  Island  of  San  Pedro,  and 
the  savage  and  brutal  murderer  to  whom  he  owed  his  life. 

For  days  afterwards,  the  mind  of  the  Sailor  was  domi- 
nated by  Mr.  Thompson.  He  learned  from  the  newspapers 
300 


THE  SAILOR 

that  tht  mate  of  the  Margaret  Carey  was  condemned  to 
death,  and  that  he  awaited  the  last  office  of  the  law  in  Dais- 
ton  Prison.  One  day,  an  odd  impulse  came  upon  him.  He 
bought  some  grapes  and  took  them  to  the  prison,  and  with' 
a  boldness  far  from  his  character  at  ordinary  times,  sought 
permission  to  see  the  condemned  man. 

As  Mr.  Thompson  had  only  one  day  more  to  live,  and 
not  one  of  his  friends  had  visited  him  for  the  simple  rea- 
son that  he  had  not  a  friend  in  the  world,  the  governor  of 
the  prison,  a  humane  man,  gave  the  Sailor  permission  to 
see  the  mate  of  the  Margaret  Carey. 

Behind  iron  bars  and  in  the  presence  of  a  warder,  Henry 
Harper  was  allowed  to  look  upon  Mr.  Thompson,  to  speak 
to  him,  and  to  offer  the  grapes  he  had  brought  him.  But 
a  dreadful  shock  awaited  the  young  man.  He  saw  at  once 
that  there  was  nothing  human  now  in  the  man  who  was 
ranging  his  cell  like  a  caged  beast. 

"Don't  you  know  me,  Mr.  Thompson?"  cried  Henry 
Harper  feebly,  through  the  bars. 

The  mate  of  the  Margaret  Carey  paid  no  heed  to  his 
voice,  but  still  paced  up  and  down. 

"Don't  you  know  me,  Mr.  Thompson?     I'm  Sailor." 

For  a  fraction  of  time,  the  condemned  man  turned  sav- 
age, unutterable  eyes  upon  him.  They  were  those  of  a 
wild  beast  at  bay. 

"There's  no  God,"  he  said. 

He  dashed  his  head  against  the  wall  of  his  cell. 

XIX 

HENRY  HARPER  was  now  in  a  universe  of  infinite 
complexity.     The  genie  who  lived  in  the  wonder- 
ful lamp  in  his  brain  had  taught  him  already  that 
he  knew  nothing  about  whole  stellar  spaces  in  this  strange 
301 


THE  SAILOR 

cosmos  that  he,  the  thing  he  called  himself,  inhabited.  More- 
over,  it  presented  many  problems.  Of  these  the  most  instant 
and  pressing  was  Cora. 

It  was  no  use  mincing  the  matter:  Cora  and  he  were 
not  getting  on.  There  was  no  bond  of  sympathy  between 
them.  His  work  and  all  that  went  with  it  were  far  more  to 
him  than  the  woman  he  had  married.  And  when  this  fact 
came  home  to  her,  she  began  to  resent  it  in  a  contemptuous 
way.  It  made  it  more  difficult  for  both  that  his  work  only 
appealed  to  her  in  one  aspect,  and  that  the  one  which  least 
appealed  to  him.  The  hard  and  continuous  labor  it  in- 
volved meant  nothing  to  her;  the  hopes  and  the  fears  of  an 
awakening  artistic  sense  were  things  beyond  her  power  to 
grasp ;  if  his  work  had  not  a  definite  commercial  value,  if  it 
could  not  be  rendered  in  pounds  and  shillings,  it  was  a 
waste  of  time  and  worse  than  meaningless.  Everything 
apart  from  that  was  a  closed  book  as  far  as  she  was  con- 
cerned. She  began  to  despise  his  timidity  and  his  ignorance, 
and  the  time  soon  came  when  she  did  not  hesitate  to  sneer  at 
him  before  her  friends. 

For  one  thing,  she  was  bitterly  resentful.  It  was  useless 
to  disguise  that  he  was  not  merely  indifferent  to  her  physical 
charms,  he  positively  disliked  and  even  dreaded  that  aspect 
of  their  life  together.  Within  a  very  short  time  after  their 
marriage,  he  made  the  discovery  that  she  drank. 

Even  before  that  knowledge  came  he  had  discerned  some- 
thing unwholesome  about  her.  The  blackened  eyebrows,  the 
rouged  cheeks,  the  dyed  hair,  the  overfine  presence,  the 
stealthy,  cloying  color  of  scent  she  exuded,  the  coarse  mouth, 
the  apathetic  eyes,  had  always  been  things  that  he  dared 
not  let  his  mind  rest  upon  in  detail  even  before  he  had 
taken  them  unto  himself.  And  now  that  he  had  done  so  at 
the  call  of  duty,  and  with  even  that  to  sustain  him,  he  fore- 
saw that  he  must  come  to  dislike  them  more  and  more.  It 
302 


THE  SAILOR 

hardly  needed  a  pervading  reek  of  brandy  in  her  bedroom  to 
read  the  future. 

Unluckily  for  Cora,  the  monotony  of  a  "straight"  life 
with  such  a  humdrum  young  man  was  more  than  she  could 
stand  for  any  length  of  time.  The  old  fatal  habit  was  soon 
upon  her  again.  Years  of  yielding  had  weakened  her  will; 
and  now  she  was  beginning  to  grow  contemptuous  of  her 
husband — perhaps  as  a  requital  of  his  apathy  towards  her 
— she  began  to  assume  a  defiant  carelessness,  first  of  man- 
ner and  then  of  conduct. 

Disaster  was  foreshadowed  by  several  quarrels.  None  of 
these  were  serious,  but  they  showed  the  inevitable  end  to- 
wards which  matters  had  begun  to  drift.  Henry  Harper 
was  not  the  sort  of  man  with  whom  it  was  easy  to  quarrel; 
he  had  no  aptitude  for  a  form  of  reflex  action  quite  alien  to 
his  nature.  All  the  same,  there  were  times  when  he  was 
almost  tempted  to  defend  himself  from  Cora's  perpetual 
sneers  at  his  dullness,  not  only  in  her  company,  which  was 
bad  enough,  but  in  that  of  her  friends,  which  was  worse. 

Her  chief  complaint  was  his  bearing  in  restaurants  and 
public  places.  He  had  not  a  word  to  say  for  himself;  he 
let  "the  girls"  and  "the  boys" — Cora  included  her  whole 
exceedingly  numerous  acquaintance  in  these  terms — "come 
it  over  him";  he  took  everything  lying  down;  and  she 
couldn't  understand  why  a  man  who  was  as  clever  as  he  was 
supposed  to  be  "didn't  let  himself  out  a  bit  now  and  again." 

Ha'rry's  social  maladroitness  became  a  very  sore  subject. 
It  annoyed  Cora  intensely  that  the  boys  and  the  girls  should 
so  consistently  "make  a  mark  of  him."  His  inability  to  hit 
back  seemed  to  be  a  grave  reflection  upon  her  judgment  and 
igood  taste  in  marrying  him.  The  time  soon  came  when  she 
told  him  that  if  he  couldn't  show  himself  a  little  brighter  in 
company,  he  could  either  stay  at  home  of  an  evening  or  go 
his  way,  and  she  would  go  hers. 
303 


THE  SAILOR 

As  a  fact,  neither  alternative  was  irksome  to  Henry 
Harper.  But  the  ultimatum  hurt  him  very  much.  The  odd 
thing  was  that  in  spite  of  the  nipping  atmosphere  to  which 
his  sensitiveness  was  exposed,  it  seemed  to  grow  more  acute. 
He  had  a  very  real  sense  of  inferiority  in  the  presence  of 
others.  Not  only  did  he  suffer  from  a  lack  of  any  kind  of 
social  training,  but  even  the  few  counters  he  was  painfully 
acquiring  in  a  difficult  game  he  had  not  the  art  of  playing  to 
advantage.  Thus  he  was  only  too  glad  to  accept  Cora's 
ukase.  It  was  a  merciful  relief  to  sit  at  home  in  the  evening 
and  eat  the  meager  cold  supper  that  Royal  Daylight  pro- 
vided, and  then  go  on  with  his  work  to  what  hour  he  chose, 
instead  of  being  haled  abroad  at  the  heels  of  a  superfashion- 
able  and  therefore  hyperdisdainful  Cora  to  public  places, 
where  he  was  always  at  a  miserable  disadvantage. 

She  thus  formed  a  habit  of  sallying  forth  alone  in  the 
evening.  Although  she  sometimes  returned  after  midnight 
in  a  slightly  elevated  condition,  or  in  her  own  words, 
"inclined  to  be  market  merry,"  her  husband  had  too  little 
knowledge  of  life  to  be  really  suspicious  or  even  deeply 
resentful. 

Under  the  new  arrangement,  which  suited  the  young 
man  so  well,  he  was  able  to  attend  public  lectures  at  various 
places,  the  Polytechnic  in  Regent  Street,  the  British  Mu- 
seum, the  London  Institution,  the  South  Kensington  Mu- 
seum, and  other  centers  of  light.  These  helped  him  in  certain 
ways.  He  was  no  dry-as-dust.  Already  his  eyes  were  set 
towards  the  mountain  peaks,  yet  with  a  humility  that  was 
perhaps  his  chief  asset,  he  felt  it  to  be  in  the  power  of  all 
men  to  help  him  upon  his  journey. 

Twice  a  week,  now,  after  an  early  supper,  he  would  go 

to  a  lecture.     When  it  was  over,  h?.  would  often  take  a 

stroll  about  the  streets  in  order  to  observe  the  phantasmagoria 

around  him  of  which  he  knew  so  little.    Yet  his  eager  mind 

304 


THE  SAILOR 

was  looking  forward  to  a  time  when  all  should  be  made 
clear  by  the  play  of  the  light  that  shines  in  darkness. 

As  a  rule,  he  would  finish  his  evening's  excursion  with  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  a  sandwich  at  Appenrodt's  in  Oxford  Cir- 
cus. And  then  thinking  his  wonderful  thoughts,  he  would 
take  a  final  enchanted  stroll  homewards  to  the  Avenue,  to 
No.  106,  King  John's  Mansions,  where  his  work  and  his 
books  awaited  him.  Sometimes,  however,  he  was  greatly 
troubled  with  the  thought  of  Cora.  It  was  idle  to  disguise 
the  ever  growing  sense  of  antagonism  that  was  arising  be- 
tween them.  But  she  went  her  way  and  he  went  his.  The 
financial  arrangement  they  had  now  come  to  was  that  he 
should  pay  the  rent  of  the  flat  and  all  household  expenses, 
and  as  Cora  had  apparently  no  money  of  her  own,  he  also 
allowed  her  half  of  what  remained  of  his  income. 

One  evening  in  the  summer,  as  he  was  walking  slowly 
down  Regent  Street,  a  man  and  a  woman  passed  him  in  an 
open  taxi.  The  woman  was  Cora,  and  the  man,  who  was  in 
evening  dress,  appeared  to  have  his  arm  around  her  waist. 
The  sight  was  like  a  blow  in  the  face.  And  yet  it  was  a 
thing  so  far  outside  his  ken  that  it  was  impossible  to  know 
exactly  what  it  meant.  For  a  moment  he  was  dazed.  He 
did  not  know  how  to  regard  it,  or  in  what  way  to  deal  with 
it.  To  begin  with,  and  perhaps  oddly,  it  did  not  make  him 
particularly  angry.  Why  he  was  not  more  angry,  he  didn't 
know.  No  doubt  it  was  because  he  was  growing  to  dislike 
Cora  so  intensely.  But  as  he  walked  slowly  to  King  John's 
Mansions  he  still  had  the  curious  feeling  of  being  half 
stunned  by  a  blow. 

He  went  to  bed  without  awaiting  her  return.  She  had 
recently  taken  to  coming  home  very  late.  Partly  because  of 
this,  and  partly  in  consequence  of  the  condition  in  which 
she  often  returned,  he  had  insisted  for  some  little  time  past 
upon  a  bedroom  of  his  own.  This  she  had  been  very  un- 
305 


THE  SAILOR 

willing  to  concede,  but  he  had  fought  for  it  and  had  in  the 
end  won;  and  tonight  as  he  turned  in  and  locked  the  door, 
he  determined  that  no  power  on  earth  should  cause  him  to 
yield  the  spoils  of  victory.  He  got  into  bed  with  hideous 
phantoms  in  his  mind.  But  the  thought  uppermost  was  that 
he  had  turned  yet  another  page  of  experience.  And  there 
suddenly  in  the  midst  of  the  flow  and  eddy  of  his  fancies, 
the  awful  face  of  Mr.  Thompson  emerged  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  He  could  almost  hear  the  mate  of  the  Margaret 
Carey  dash  his  head  against  the  wall  of  his  cell. 

He  put  forth  all  his  power  of  will  in  the  hope  of  induc- 
ing sleep,  but  before  it  showed  signs  of  coming,  he  heard 
Cora's  latchkey  fumbling  at  the  front  door  of  the  flat.  She 
opened  it  with  a  rattle,  and  closed  it  with  a  bang;  and  then 
he  heard  her  come  stumbling  along  the  passage,  her  fuddled 
voice  uplifted  in  the  mirthless  strain  of  a  music  hall  ditty. 

With  a  sensation  of  physical  nausea,  he  heard  her  try  the 
handle  of  the  bedroom  door.  And  then  there  came  a  knock. 

"Let  me  in,  ducky." 

He  didn't  answer,  but  pulled  the  bedclothes  over  his  head. 

"Let  me  in,  ducky.     I  want  to  kiss  you  good  night." 

In  spite  of  the  bedclothes,  he  could  still  hear  her. 

Receiving  no  answer,  she  beat  upon  the  door  again. 

"Don't  then" — he  could  still  hear  her— £You  are  no  good, 
anyway." 

She  then  stumbled  to  her  own  room  singing  "Ta-ra-ra- 
boom-de-ay"  with  cheerful  defiance,  and  slammed  the  door. 

XX 

THE  next  day  Cora  was  not  visible  until  about  two 
o'clock,  which  was  now  her  invariable  rule.    They 
lunched  together.    He  could  hardly  bring  himself  to 
eat  the  comfortless  meal  with  her.     But,  after  all,  he  had 
306 


"  'I  was  a  bit  on  last  night,'  she  said,  with  well-assumed  humility." 


THE  SAILOR 

taken  her  for  better  or  for  worse.     He  must  keep  his  part 
of  the  contract,  therefore  it  was  no  use  being  squeamish. 

He  waited  until  the  meal  was  over  and  Royal  Daylight 
had  cleared  the  table,  and  had  also  cleared  away  herself,  be- 
fore he  mentioned  the  taxi.  And  then  very  bluntly,  and  in 
a  tone  entirely  new  to  her  as  well  as  to  himself,  he  demanded 
an  explanation. 

Cora,  it  seemed,  was  in  a  rather  chastened  mood.  For  one 
thing,  she  was  now  sober,  and  when  she  was  sober  she  was 
not  exactly  a  fool.  She  was  not  really  repentant.  He  was 
too  poor  a  thing  to  make  a  self-respecting  woman  repent. 
But  now  she  was  again  herself,  she  was  both  shrewd  and 
wary;  after  all,  this  double-adjectival  idiot  was  the  goose  that 
laid  the  golden  eggs. 

"I  was  a  bit  on  last  night,"  she  said,  with  well-assumed 
humility. 

"Yes,  I  heard  you  was  when  you  come  home,"  he  said, 
with  the  new  note  in  his  voice  that  she  didn't  like. 

"Oh,  so  you  did  hear."  She  suddenly  determined  to 
carry  the  war  into  the  enemy's  country.  "Why  didn't  you 
open  it,  then?" 

The  cold  impudence  stung. 

"I'd  rather  have  died  than  have  opened  it  to  a  cow  like 
you."  He  hardly  knew  the  words  he  used.  They  had  seemed 
to  spring  unbidden  from  the  back  of  beyond. 

She  half  respected  him  for  speaking  to  her  in  that  way, 
and  in~  such  a  tone ;  there  was  perhaps  a  little  more  to  the 
double-adjectival  one  than  she  had  guessed.  And  as  the 
cards  were  dead  against  her  now,  she  decided  on  a  strategic 
grovel  of  pathos  and  brandy. 

"Call  yourself  a  gentleman?"  Tears  sprang  reluctantly 
to  the  raddled  cheek. 

The  sight  of  a  lady  in  tears,  even  a  lady  who  drank,  was 
a  little  too  much  for  Henry  Harper. 
307 


THE  SAILOR 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "I  oughtn't  to  have  said 
that."  He  had  remembered  that  the  word  "cow"  as  applied 
to  the  female  sex  was  a  Blackhampton  expression  and  a 
favorite  with  Auntie. 

The  lady  could  only  weep  a  little  more  profusely.  This 
mug  was  as  soft  as  butter. 

He  stood  looking  at  her  with  tight  lips  and  with  eyes  of 
sorrowful  disgust. 

"But  you've  no  right  to  drink  as  much  as  you  do,"  he 
said,  determinedly.  "And  you've  no  right  to  ride  in  taxis 
with  gentlemen  and  to  let  them  put  their  arms  round  you." 

"And  you've  no  right  to  call  your  own  lawful  wife  a 
cow,"  she  said,  tearfully. 

"I've  apologized  for  that,"  he  said.  "But  you've  given 
me  no  explanation  of  that  gentleman." 

"Didn't  I  say  I  was  a  bit  on,"  she  said  aggrievedly. 

"It's  no  excuse.     It  makes  it  worse." 

"Yes,  it  does,"  said  Mrs.  Henry  Harper,  with  a  further 
grovel,  "if  it  happened.  But  it  didn't  happen.  You  was 
mistaken,  Harry.  I'm  too  much  the  lady  to  let  any  gentle- 
man, whether  he  was  in  evening  dress  or  whether  he  wasn't, 
put  his  arm  around  me  in  a  taxi.  I  wouldn't  think  of  it  now 
I'm  married.  Now,  you  kiss  your  Cora,  Harry,  for  calling 
her  a  name." 

She  approached  him  with  pursed  lips.  In  spite  of  the 
shame  he  felt  for  such  a  lapse  from  his  official  duties,  he 
retreated  slowly  before  her. 

"It's  no  use  denying  it,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  the  table 
had  been  placed  successfully  between  them.  "I  saw  his  arm 
round  you." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Harry."  She  did  not  like  the  look 
or  the  sound  of  him.  She  was  beginning  to  be  alarmed  at 
her  own  folly.  "I  may  have  been  a  bit  on,  but  I  was  not 
as  bad  as  that.  Honest." 

308 


THE  SAILOR 

"I  saw  what  I  saw,"  he  persisted;  and  then  feeling  no 
longer  able  to  cope  with  her  or  the  situation,  he  slipped  out 
of  the  room  and  out  of  the  flat. 

He  had  now  to  look  forward  in  a  dim  way  to  the  time 
when  he  would  have  to  leave  her.  The  time  was  not  yet, 
but  he  was  beginning  to  feel  in  the  very  marrow  of  his  bones 
that  it  was  near.  Now  that  her  secret  was  out  and  a 
hopeless  deterioration  had  begun,  there  was  something  so 
revolting  in  the  whole  thing  that  he  foresaw  already  their 
life  together  could  have  only  one  end.  But  in  the  mean- 
time, he  must  be  man  enough  to  keep  with  a  stiff  upper  lip 
a  contract  he  ought  never  to  have  made. 

Apart  from  his  domestic  relations,  things  were  going  very 
well  indeed  with  him.  He  had  completed  the  "Further 
Adventures  of  Dick  Smith"  to  the  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Am- 
brose, and  it  was  on  the  point  of  starting  in  the  magazine. 
Moreover,  the  first  series  had  won  fame  on  both  sides  of 
the  Atlantic.  It  was  felt,  so  rare  was  its  merits,  that  if 
Henry  Harper  never  wrote  anything  else  his  reputation 
was  secure  for  twenty  years. 

This,  of  course,  was  an  amazing  piece  of  fortune.  Ed- 
ward Ambrose,  who  had  had  no  small  share  in  bringing  it 
about,  and  whose  discriminating  friendship  had  made  it  pos- 
<  sible,  compared  it,  in  his  own  mind,  with  the  success  of 
'  Dickens,  who,  after  a  life  of  poverty  and  hardship,  gained 
immortality  at  five  and  twenty.  It  was  far  too  soon  as  yet 
to  predict  such  a  crown  for  Henry  Harper,  but  he  had  cer- 
tainly burst  upon  the  world  as  a  full-fledged  literary  curi- 
osity. His  name  was  coming  to  be  in  the  mouth  of  all  who 
could  appreciate  real  imagination. 

One  of  the  first  fruits  of  this  success  was  his  election  to 

the   Stylists'   Club.     This   distinguished   and  esoteric  body 

met  on  the  afternoon  of  the  first  Tuesday  of  the  autumn 

and  winter  months  at  Paradine's  Hotel  in  Upper  Brook 

309 


THE  SAILOR 

Street,  Berkeley  Square,  to  discuss  Style.  Literary  style 
only  was  within  the  scope  of  its  reference;  at  the  same 
time,  the  members  of  the  club  carried  Style  into  all  the 
appurtenances  of  their  daily  lives.  Not  only  were  they 
stylists  on  paper,  they  were  stylists  in  manner,  in  dress,  in 
speech,  in  mental  outlook.  The  club  was  so  select  that  it 
was  limited  to  two  hundred  members,  as  it  was  felt  there 
was  never  likely  to  be  more  than  that  number  of  persons  in 
the  metropolis  at  any  one  time  who  could  be  expected  to  pos- 
sess an  authentic  voice  upon  the  subject.  Happily,  these 
were  not  all  confined  to  one  sex.  The  club  included  ladies. 

That  the  Stylists'  Club,  of  all  human  institutions,  should 
have  sought  out  Henry  Harper  for  the  signal  honor  of  mem- 
bership, seemed  a  rare  bit  of  byplay  on  the  part  of  Provi- 
dence. For  a  reason  which  he  could  not  explain,  Edward 
Ambrose  gave  a  hoot  of  delight  when  the  young  man  brought 
to  him  the  club's  invitation,  countersigned  by  its  president, 
the  supremely  distinguished  Mr.  Herbert  Gracious,  whose 
charmingly  urbane  "Appreciations,"  issued  biennially,  were 
known  wherever  the  English  language  was  in  use.  Mr. 
Herbert  Gracious  was  not  merely  a  stylist  himself,  he  was  a 
cause  of  style  in  others. 

Henry  Harper  had  been  a  little  troubled  at  first  by  the 
hoot  of  Mr.  Ambrose,  and  the  feeling  of  doubt  it  inspired 
was  not  made  less  by  a  rather  lame  defense.  All  the  same', 
Mr.  Ambrose  so  frankly  respected  the  young  man's  intense 
desire  to  improve  himself  that  he  urged  him  to  join  the  club, 
and  to  attend  the  first  meeting,  at  any  rate,  of  the  new  ses- 
sion, if  he  felt  he  would  get  the  least  good  out  of  it. 

In  response  to  a  basely  utilitarian  suggestion,  Henry  Har- 
per said  he  would  do  so.  He  was  not  in  a  frame  of  mind 
to  face  such  an  ordeal.  But  he  must  not  let  go  of  himself. 
Miserable  as  he  was,  he  felt  he  must  take  such  advice  if  only 
to  prove  his  courage.  He  would  attend  the  first  meeting  of 
310 


THE  SAILOR 

the  Stylists'  Club  on  the  ground  of  its  being  good  for  the 
character,  if  on  no  higher. 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  there,  sir?" 

"No,"  laughed  Mr.  Ambrose.  "I'm  not  a  member.  It's 
a  very  distinguished  body." 

Henry  Harper  looked  incredulous.  It  did  not  occur  to 
him  that  anybody  could  be  so  distinguished  as  to  exclude 
such  a  man  as  Edward  Ambrose. 

"I  don't  think  I'll  go,  then,"  said  Henry  Harper.  "It 
will  be  a  bit  lonesome-like." 

"Please  do.  And  then  come  and  tell  me  about  it.  Your 
personal  impression  will  be  valuable." 

It  was  for  this  reason  that  the  Sailor  finally  decided  not 
to  show  the  white  feather. 

XXI 

HENRY  HARPER  found  the  Stylists'  Club  of  far 
greater  interest  than  he  thought  it  would  be.  To 
one  as  simple  as  he  it  was  a  very  stimulating  body. 
Moving  precariously  towards  fresh  standards  of  life,  he  knew 
at  once  that  he  was  in  a  strange  new  world.  He  knew 
even  before  a  powdered  footman  had  led  him  across  the  par- 
queted floors  of  Paradine's  Hotel,  and  a  personage  hardly 
less  gorgeous  had  announced  him  to  the  congeries  of  stylists 
who  had  assembled  to  the  number  of  about  sixty. 

"It  is  such  a  pleasure,  Mr.  Harper,"  said  a  large,  florid, 
benign  and  beaming  gentleman,  seizing  him  by  the  hand. 
"You  will  find  us  all  at  your  feet." 

Mr.  Harper  was  overawed  not  a  little  by  the  size  and  the 
distinction  of  the  company,  but  the  benign  and  beaming 
gentleman,  who  was  no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Herbert 
Gracious  himself,  took  him  in  charge  and  introduced  him 
to  several  other  gentlemen,  most  of  whom  were  benign  but 


THE  SAILOR 

not  beaming,  being  rather  obviously  preoccupied  with  a  sense 
of  Style.  Indeed,  Mr.  Herbert  Gracious  was  the  only  one 
of  its  members  who  did  beam  really.  The  others  were  far 
too  deeply  engaged  with  the  momentous  matters  they  had 
met  to  consider. 

When  Mr.  Henry  Harper  had  been  allowed  to  subside 
into  a  vacant  chair  in  the  midst  of  six  stylists,  four  of  whom 
were  female  and  two  of  whom  were  male,  he  was  able  to 
pull  himself  together  a  little.  He  knew  already  that  he  was 
in  very  deep  waters  indeed :  Mr.  Esme  Horrobins  and  Mr, 
Edward  Ambroses  were  all  around  him.  And  these  ladies 
.  .  .  these  ladies  who  waved  eyeglasses  stuck  on  sticks  were 
not  of  the  Cora  and  the  Miss  Press  and  the  Miss  Bonser 
breed ;  they  were  of  the  sort  that  Klondyke  put  on  a  high  hat 
and  a  swallowtail  to  walk  with  in  Hyde  Park.  Yes,  even 
for  a  sailor,  he  was  in  very  deep  waters  just  now,  and  he 
was  obliged  to  tell  himself  once  again,  as  he  always  did  in 
such  circumstances,  that  having  sailed  six  years  before  the 
mast  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  to  fear. 

All  the  same,  at  first  he  was  very  far  from  being  happy. 
A  dozen  separate  yet  correlated  discussions  upon  Style  had 
been  interrupted  by  his  entrance.  The  announcement,  "Mr. 
Henry  Harper,"  had  suspended  every  conversation.  For  a 
moment  all  the  Mr.  Esme  Horrobins  were  mute  and  in- 
glorious. But  then,  having  glutted  their  gaze  upon  one 
whom  Mr.  Herbert  Gracious  himself  had  already  crowned 
in  the  Literary  Supplement  of  the  Daily  Age  and  Lyre,  the 
Mr.  Esme  Horrobins  and  the  Mrs.  Esme  Horrobins — the 
mere  male  was  not  allowed  to  have  it  all  his  own  way  in 
this  discussion  upon  Style — took  up  the  theme, 

It  was  the  part  of  Mr.  Henry  Harper  to  listen.     The 

public  press  of   England   and  America  had   compared   his 

own  style  to  that  of  Stevenson,  Bunyan,  Defoe,  the  Bible, 

Shakespeare,    Lastitia   Longborn    Gentle,    Memphis   Mort- 

312 


THE  SAILOR 

main  Mimpriss,  finally  Dostoievsky,  and  then  Stevenson 
again.  In  a  true  analysis  Stevenson  would  have  defeated  all 
the  other  competitors  together,  leaving  out  Dostoievsky,  who 
was  a  bad  second,  and  excluding  the  Bible,  Shakespeare,  and 
Memphis  Mortmain  Mimpriss,  who,  to  their  great  discredit, 
were  an  equally  bad  third.  Stevenson  was  first  and  the 
rest  nowhere.  And  there  that  glorious  reincarnation  sat, 
in  a  modest  blue  suit,  but  looking  very  neat  and  clean,  lis- 
tening to  every  word  that  fell  in  his  vicinity  from  the  lips 
of  the  elect.  At  least,  that  was,  as  far  as  it  was  possible 
for  one  human  pair  of  ears  to  do  so. 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Harper,"  said  Miss  Carinthia  Small,  with 
all  Kensington  upon  her  eyebrows,  imperiously  attacking  with 
a  stick  eyeglass,  which  she  wobbled  ferociously,  this  very 
obvious  young  genius  who  didn't  know  how  to  dress  prop- 
erly, as  soon  as  Mr.  Marmaduke  Buzzard — M.B.  of  the 
Stylists'  Review — had  allowed  her,  much  against  his  will  and 
for  purely  physical  reasons,  to  get  in  a  word.  "Tell  me,  Mr. 
Harper,  exactly  how  you  feel  about  Dostoievsky?  Where 
do  you  place  him?  Before  Meredith  and  after  Cuthbert 
Rampant,  or  before  Cuthbert  Rampant  and  after  Thomas 
Hardy?" 

It  was  a  dismal  moment  for  Mr.  Henry  Harper.  For- 
tunately he  hesitated  for  a  fraction  of  an  instant,  and  he 
was  saved.  That  infinitesimal  period  of  time  had  given  Mr. 
Marmaduke  Buzzard  his  chance  to  get  in  again.  And  stung 
by  the  public  acclamation  of  Mr.  Cuthbert  Rampant,  a  well- 
nourished  young  man  in  a  checked  cravat,  who  was  curving 
gracefully  over  Miss  Carinthia  Small,  he  proceeded  to  show 
with  some  little  violence,  yet  without  loss  of  temper,  that 
in  any  discussion  of  style  qua  style,  Turgenieff  alone  of 
the  Russians  could  possibly  count. 

"But  everybody  knows,"  breathed  the  defiant  Miss  Ca- 
rinthia in  the  charmed  ear  of  Mr.  Cuthbert  Rampant,  "that 
313 


THE  SAILOR 

had  it  not  been  for  Dostoievsky,  the  'Adventures  of  Dick 
Smith'  could  never  have  been  written  at  all." 

The  considered  reply  of  Mr.  Cuthbert  Rampant  was  lost 
in  the  boom  and  the  rattle  of  Mr.  Marmaduke  Buzzard's 
heavy  artillery. 

Henry  Harper  might  have  sailed  six  years  upon  the  high 
seas,  but  a  flood  of  deep  and  perplexing  waters  was  all  around 
him  now.  Stylists  to  right  of  him,  stylists  to  left  of  him,  all 
discoursing  ex  cathedra  upon  that  supreme  quality.  Never, 
since  the  grim  days  of  the  Margaret  Carey  had  he  felt  a 
sterner  need  to  keep  cool  and  hold  his  wits  about  him.  But 
with  the  native  shrewdness  that  always  stood  to  him  in  a 
crisis,  he  had  grasped  already  a  very  important  fact.  It 
must  be  the  task  just  now  of  the  new  Stevenson  to  sit 
tight  and  say  nothing. 

To  this  resolve  he  kept  honorably.  And  it  was  less  diffi- 
cult than  it  might  have  been  had  not  Style  alone  been  the 
theme  of  their  discourse,  had  not  this  been  an  authentic  body 
of  its  practitioners,  and  had  not  "The  Adventures  of  Dick 
Smith"  been  acclaimed  as  the  finest  example  of  pure  narrative 
seen  for  many  a  year.  All  through  the  period  of  tea  and 
cake,  which  Mr.  Henry  Harper  contrived  to  hand  about 
with  the  best  of  them,  being  honestly  determined  not  to  mind 
his  inferior  clothes  and  absence  of  manner,  because,  after 
all,  these  things  were  less  important  than  they  seemed  at  the 
moment,  he  kept  perfectly  mute. 

Nevertheless  he  had  one  brief  lapse,  It  was  after  he  had 
drunk  a  cup  of  tea  and  the  undefeated  Miss  Carinthia  Small 
had  drunk  several,  and  Mr.  Marmaduke  Buzzard  had  re- 
tired in  gallant  pursuit  of  some  watercress  sandwiches,  that 
the  dauntless  lady  felt  it  to  be  her  duty  to  draw  him  out. 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Harper,"  said  she,  "what  really  led  you  to 
Stevenson  ?" 

So  much  was  the  novice  troubled  by  the  form  of  the  ques- 
3H 


THE  SAILOR 

tion  that  she  decided  to  restate  it  in  a  simpler  one,  although 
heaven  knew  it  was  simple  enough  already! 

"What  is  your  favorite  Stevenson?"  she  asked,  looking 
Mr.  Cuthbert  Rampant  full  in  the  eye  with  an  air  of  the 
complete  Amazon. 

The  author  of  "The  Adventures  of  Dick  Smith"  was, 
bound  to  speak  then.  Unfortunately  he  spoke  to  his  own," 
undoing. 

"I've  only  read  one  book  by  Stevisson,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  of  curious  penetration  which  nervousness  had  rendered 
loud  and  strident. 

"Pray,  which  is  that?"  asked  Miss  Carinthia  Small  in  icy 
tones. 

"It's  the  one  called  'Virginibus  Puerisk,'  "  said  Mr.  Henry  " 
Harper. 

Miss  Carinthia  Small  felt  that  a  pin  might  have  been 
heard  to  fall  in  Upper  Brook  Street,  Berkeley  Square.  Mr. 
Cuthbert  Rampant  shared  her  emotion.  Yet  the  area  of  the 
fatal  silence  did  not  extend  beyond  Mr.  Marmaduke  Buz- 
zard, who  had  already  reopened  fire  a  short  distance  away, 
and  was  again  doing  immense  execution. 

Miss  Carinthia  Small  and  Mr.  Cuthbert  Rampant  risked 
no  further  discussion  of  Stevisson  with  this  strange  young 
Visigoth  from  the  back  of  beyond.  Neither  of  them  could 
have  believed  it  to  be  possible.  When  he  had  been  first 
ushered  into  the  room  by  the  benign  Herbert,  and  had 
modestly  sat  down,  he  had  looked  so  clean  and  neat,  and 
anxious  to  efface  himself  that  he  might  have  been  a  product 
of  some  self-respecting  modern  university  who  was  on  a 
reconnaissance  from  a  garden  suburb.  But  how  could  that 
have  been  their  thought!  This  was  a  cruel  trick  that  some- 
body had  played  upon  Herbert.  There  was  malice  in  it,  too. 
Dear  Herbert,  England's  only  critic,  the  British  Sainte 
Beuve,  had  had  his  leg  pulled  in  a  really  wicked  manner  I 
21  315 


THE  SAILOR 

He  had  always  prided  himself  upon  being  democratic  and 
inclusive,  but  there  was  a  limit  to  everything. 

Happily  the  Sailor  did  not  stay  much  longer.  Many 
stylists  were  going  already.  It  had  been  an  interesting 
experk  ice  for  the  young  man.  If  he  had  gained  nothing 
beyond  a  cup  of  lukewarm  tea  and  a  cucumber  sandwich, 
he  certainly  felt  very  glad  that  he  had  had  the  courage  to 
face  it. 

"Good-by,  ma'am,"  he  said,  squeezing  a  delicate  white 
glove  in  a  broad  and  powerful  grip.  "I'm  very  proud  to 
have  met  you.  What  else  ought  I  to  read  of  Stevisson?" 

Miss  Carintha  Small  felt  an  inclination  to  laugh.  But 
yet  there  was  something  that  saved  him.  What  it  was  she 
didn't  know.  She  only  knew  it  was  something  that  Win- 
chester and  New  College  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Cuthbert 
Ra.npant  did  not  possess. 

"Good-by."  There  was  really  very  little  of  the  stylist 
in  her  voice,  although  she  was  not  aware  of  it,  and  would 
have  been  quite  mortified  had  such  been  the  case.  "And  you 
must  read  'Treasure  Island.'  It  is  exactly  your  style,  al- 
though 'Dick  Smith'  is  very  much  deeper  and  truer  and  to 
my  mind  altogether  more  sincere." 

Miss  Carinthia  Small  had  not  meant  to  say  a  word  of 
this.  She  had  not  meant  to  say  anything.  She  had  intended 
to  efface  this  young  man  altogether. 

The  Sailor  threaded  his  way  through  a  perfect  maze  of 
stylists  with  almost  a  sense  of  rapture.  It  had  been  a  de- 
lightful adventure  to  converse  on  equal  terms  with  a  real 
Hyde  Park  Lady:  a  brilliant  creature  who  had  neither 
chaffed  him  nor  hit  him  in  the  back,  nor  addressed  him  as 
"Greased  Lightning,"  nor  had  rebuked  him  with  "Damn 
you."  He  walked  out  on  air. 

As  the  author  of  "The  Adventures  of  Dick  Smith"  was 
retrieving  his  hat  from  the  hotel  cloak  room,  he  was  sud- 


THE  SAILOR 

dcnly  brought  to  earth.  Two  really  imperial  stylists  were 
being  assisted  into  elaborate  fur  coats  by  two  stylists  among 
footman. 

"My  dear  Herbert."  An  abnormally  quick  ear  caught 
the  half  humorous,  half  indignant  remark,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  it  was  uttered  in  a  very  low  tone.  "This  man 
Harper  ...  I  assure  you  the  fellow  hasn't  an  aitch  to  his 
name." 

XXII 

IT  was  not  until  Henry  Harper  had  escaped  from  Para- 
dine's  Hotel  and  had  managed  to  find  a  way  into  Re- 
gent Street  that  the  words  he  had  overheard  seemed 
to  hit  him  between  the  eyes.  His  mind  had  been  thrown 
back  years,  to  Klondyke  and  the  waterlogged  bunk  in  the 
half-deck  of  the  Margaret  Carey.  He  recalled  as  in  a  dream 
the  great  argument  he  had  dared  to  maintain  as  to  the  true 
manner  of  spelling  his  name,  and  how,  finally,  he  had  been 
compelled  to  give  in.  Ever  since  that  time,  he  had  always 
put  in  the  aitch  in  deference  to  his  friend's  superior  ar- 
tillery, which  included  Greek  and  Latin  and  other  surprising 
things. 

It  was  clear,  however,  that  it  was  not  a  bit  of  use  putting 
the  letter  aitch  in  your  name  unless  you  included  it  in  your 
speech  as  well.  It  was  amazing  that  he  had  not  grasped  such 
a  simple  truth  until  that  moment.  He  had  known,  of  course, 
for  some  little  time  now,  in  fact,  ever  since  he  had  met  Mr. 
Esme  Horrobin  at  Bowdon  House  that  his  manner  of  speak- 
ing only  very  faintly  resembled  that  in  vogue  in  college  and 
society  circles. 

On  the  edge  of  the  curb  at  Piccadilly  Circus,  waiting  to 
make  the  perilous  crossing  to  the  Avenue,  the  crushing  force 
of  the  remark  he  had  overheard  seemed  to  come  right  home 
317 


THE  SAILOR 

to  him.  Moreover,  as  he  stood  there  he  saw  in  an  almost 
fantastically  objective  way  that  the  letter  aitch  should  be 
attended  to  at  once.  He  must  not  be  content  merely  to 
improve  his  mind,  he  must  improve  himself  in  every  possible 
manner. 

It  was  here,  as  he  stood  in  deep  thought,  that  his  old 
friend  Providence  came  rather  officiously  to  his  aid.  A 
derelict  walked  past  him  in  the  gutter,  and  on  the  back  of 
the  human  wreck  was  fixed  a  sandwich  board  bearing  the 
legend : 

Madame  Sadleir  gives  lessons  daily  by  appointment  in 
voice  production,  elocution,  correct  speaking,  and  deport- 
ment. Apply  for  terms  at  12,  Portugal  Place,  W. 

This  was  very  friendly  of  Providence.  The  young  man 
knew  that  two  minutes  ago  he  had  passed  Portugal  Place. 
He  was  strung  up  to  the  point  of  adventure.  This  too  long 
neglected  matter  was  so  vital  to  one  who  desired  to  mix 
with  stylists  on  equal  terms,  that  it  would  be  the  part  of 
wisdom  to  see  about  it  now. 

At  this  moment  thought  was  action  with  Henry  Harper. 
Therefore  he  turned  almost  at  once  and  retraced  his  steps 
into  Regent  Street.  Within  a  very  short  time  he  was  as- 
sailing the  bell  pull  of  12,  Portugal  Place,  W.,  third  floor. 

Providence  had  arranged  that  Madame  Sadleir  should  be 
at  home.  She  was  alone,  moreover,  in  her  professional 
chamber,  and  fully  prepared  to  enter  into  the  matter  of  the 
letter  aitch. 

Madame  Sadleir  was  stout  and  elderly,  she  wore  an  au- 
burn wig,  she  was  calm  and  efficient,  yet  she  also  had  an 
indefinable  quality  of  style.  In  spite  of  a  certain  genial 
grotesqueness  she  had  an  air  of  superiority.  Henry  Har- 
per, his  vibrant  sensibilities  still  astretch  from  an  afternoon 


THE  SAILOR 

of  stylists,  perceived  at  once  that  this  was  a  lady  with  more 
or  less  of  a  capital  letter. 

Experience  of  Cora  and  her  friends  had  by  this  time 
taught  the  Sailor  that  there  were  "common  or  garden" 
ladies,  to  use  a  favorite  expression  of  Miss  Press,  and  there 
were  also  those  he  defined  as  real  or  Hyde  Park  ladies.  He 
had  little  first-hand  knowledge,  at  present,  of  the  latter;  he 
merely  watched  them  from  afar  and  marked  their  deport- 
ment in  public  places.  But  there  was  a  subtle  quality  in 
the  greeting  of  Madame  Sadleir,  almost  a  caricature  to  look 
at  as  she  was,  which  suggested  the  presence  of  a  lady  with 
a  capital  letter,  at  least  with  more  or  less  of  a  capital  letter, 
a  sort  of  Hyde  Park  lady  relapsed.  Henry  Harper  was 
aware,  almost  before  Madame  Sadleir  spoke  a  word,  that 
she  had  been  born  to  better  things  than  12,  Portugal  Place, 
W.,  third  floor. 

Completely  disarmed  by  the  calm  but  forthcoming  man- 
ner of  Madame  Sadleir,  Mr.  Henry  Harper  stated  his 
modest  need  with  extreme  simplicity.  He  just  wanted  to 
be  taught  in  as  few  lessons  as  possible  to  speak  like  a  real 
college  gentleman  that  went  regular — regularly  (remember- 
ing his  grammar  in  time) — into  Society. 

Madame  Sadleir's  smile  was  maternal. 

"Why,  certainly,"  she  said  in  the  voice  of  a  dove.  "Noth-  j 
ing  easier." 

The  young  man  felt  reassured.  He  had  not  thought, 
even  'in  his  moments  of  optimism,  that  there  would  be  any- 
thing easy  in  the  process  of  making  a  Mr.  Edward  Ambrose 
or  a  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin. 

"It  will  be  necessary,"  said  Madame  Sadleir,  "to  pay 
very  particular  attention  to  the  course  of  instruction,  and 
also  to  practice  assiduously.  But  first  you  must  learn  to 
take  breath  and  to  assemble  and  control  the  voice.  Do  you 
desire  the  Oxford  manner?" 

319 


THE  SAILOR 

Mr.  Henry  Harper,  with  recollections  of  Mr.  Edward 
Ambrose  and  Mr.  Esme  Horrobin,  said  modestly  that  he 
did  desire  the  Oxford  manner  if  it  could  be  acquired  in  a 
few  lessons,  which  was  yet  more  than  he  dared  to  hope. 

"The  number  of  lessons  depends  entirely  upon  your  dili- 
gence and,  may  I  add" — and  Madame  Sadleir  did  add — 
"your  intelligence  and  natural  aptitude.  But,  of  course,  to 
remove  all  misunderstanding,  the  Oxford  manner  is  an 
extra." 

Somehow  he  felt  that  such  would  be  the  case. 

"Personally,  one  doesn't  recommend  it,"  said  Mudame 
Sadleir,  "for  general  use." 

Mr.   Harper  was  a  little  disappointed. 

"It  is  not  quite  so  popular  as  it  was,"  said  Madame 
Sadleir,  "unless  one  is  going  into  the  Church.  In  the 
Church  it  is  always  in  vogue,  in  fact  one  might  say  a  sine 
qua  non  in  its  higher  branches.  Do  you  propose  to  take 
Orders'?" 

Mr.  Harper  had  no  thoughts  of  a  commercial  life. 

"Personally,"  said  Madame  Sadleir,  speaking  with  the 
most  engaging  freedom  and  ease,  "one  is  inclined  to  favor 
a  good  Service  manner  for  all  round  general  use.  There  is 
the  A  manner  for  the  army  subaltern,  the  B  manner  for  the 
company  officer,  either  of  which  you  will  find  admirable  for 
general  purposes.  There  is  also  the  Naval  manner,  but 
excellent  as  it  is,  I  am  afraid  it  is  hardly  to  be  recom- 
mended for  social  life.  The  Civil  Service  manner,  which 
combines  utility  with  a  reasonable  amount  of  ornament, 
might  suit  you  perhaps.  I  am  recommending  it  quite  a  good 
deal  just  now.  And,  of  course,  there  is  the  Diplomatic 
or  Foreign  Office  manner  for  advanced  pupils,  but  it  may 
be  early  days  to  talk  of  that  at  present.  One  does  not  like 
to  raise  false  hopes  or  to  promise  more  than  one  can  perform. 
Now,  Mr.  Harper,  kindly  let  me  hear  you  read  this  leading 
320 


THE  SAILOR 

article  in  the  Times  on  'What  is  Wrong  with  the  Nation  ?' 
paying  particular  attention  to  the  vowel  sounds." 

With  grave  deliberation,  Mr.  Henry  Harper  did  as  he 
was  asked.  Having  painfully  completed  his  task,  Madame 
Sadleir,  in  a  remarkably  benign  way,  which  somehow 
brought  Mr.  Herbert  Gracious  vividly  to  his  mind,  pro- 
ceeded to  deal  with  him  with  the  utmost  fidelity. 

Said  she :  "It  is  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  for  the  present 
a  good  sound  No.  3  Commercial  manner  is  earnestly  recom- 
mended. If  you  are  diligent,  it  may  be  possible  to  graft 
a  modified  Oxford  upon  it,  but  I  am  afraid  it  would  be  pre- 
mature to  promise  even  that." 

This  was  disappointing.  But,  after  all,  it  was  to  be  fore- 
seen. Mr.  Edward  Ambroses  and  Mr.  Esme  Horrobins 
were  not  made  in  a  day.  And  when  he  came  to  think  the 
matter  over  at  his  leisure  he  was  sincerely  glad  that  they 
were  not.  It  would  have  taken  a  mystery  and  a  glamour 
from  the  world. 

XXIII 

ABOUT  this  time,  Henry  Harper  became  a  member 
of  a  society  which  met  once  a  week  at  Crosbie's  in 
the  Strand.    This  step  was  the  outcome  of  a  course 
of  lectures  he  had  attended  at  the  London  Ethical  Insti- 
tution,  in   Bloomsbury  Square.     They  had   been  delivered 
by  the  very  able  Professor  Wynne  Davies,  on  that  most 
fascinating  of  all  subjects  to  the  truly  imaginative  mind, 
the  Idea  of  God. 

During  these  lectures,  and  quite  by  chance,  Henry  Har- 
per had  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  certain  Arthur  Reeves, 
a  young  journalist,  who  suggested  that  he  should  join  the 
Social  Debating  Society,  which  met  at  Crosbie's  every  Tues- 
day. This  he  accordingly  did;  and  being  under  no  obliga- 
321 


THE  SAILOR 

tion  to  take  an  active  part  in  the  proceedings  until  he  felt 
he  could  do  so  with  reasonable  credit,  he  was  able  to  enjoy 
them  thoroughly.  Moreover,  he  was  in  full  sympathy  with 
Aese  alert  minds  which  for  the  most  part  were  owned  by 
young  and  struggling  men. 

Some  of  the  discussions  Henry  Harper  heard  at  Crosbie's 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  him.  All  the  members  seemed 
to  have  a  turn  for  speculative  inquiry.  The  majority  of 
those  who  took  an  active  part  in  the  debates  spoke  very 
well.  Now  and  again,  it  is  true,  the  pride  of  intellect 
raised  its  head.  Some  of  its  members  were  young  enough 
to  know  everything,  but  there  was  also  a  leaven  of  older 
minds  which  saw  life  more  steadily,  and  in  as  rounded  a 
shape  as  it  is  possible  for  the  eye  of  man  to  perceive  it. 

There  was  one  man  in  particular  who  attracted  Henry 
Harper.  His  name  was  James  Thorneycroft,  and  he  was 
in  his  way  a  rare  bird,  a  bank  manager  with  a  strong  ethical 
and  sociological  bias.  He  was  one  of  the  graybeards  of 
the  society,  a  man  of  sixty,  who  had  the  worn  look  of  one 
who  had  been  fighting  devils,  more  or  less  unsuccessfully, 
all  his  life.  For  Henry  Harper  there  was  fascination  and 
inspiration  in  James  Thorneycroft.  His  was  a  mind  capa- 
ble of  delving  deep  into  spiritual  experience,  and  of  render- 
ing it  in  terms  which  all  could  understand. 

At  the  third  meeting  which  Henry  Harper  attended  at 
Crosbie's,  his  friend  and  introducer,  Arthur  Reeves,  under 
the  spell  cast  by  the  brilliant  Professor  Wynne  Davies, 
ventured  to  combat  a  certain  skepticism  in  regard  to  the 
scope  and  function  of  the  Deity,  which  some  of  the 
advanced  members  had  put  into  words  at  the  previous 
meeting. 

The  performance  of  Arthur  Reeves  was  crude  and  rather 
unphilosophical,  and  yet  it  was  stimulating  enough  to  bring 
James  Thorneycroft  on  to  his  legs. 
322 


THE  SAILOR 

"My  own  view  about  God  is  this,"  he  began  in  that 
curiously  unpremeditated  and  abrupt  way  which  made  an 
effect  of  absolute  sincerity.  "There  is  a  form  of  inherited 
belief  that  will  overthrow  the  most  fearless  and  independent 
mind  if  it  ventures  to  disregard  it.  I  suppose  most  men 
who  think  at  all  are  up  against  this  particular  problem 
some  time  in  their  lives.  But  it  all  comes  back  to  this:  it  is 
absolutely  impossible  for  any  man  to  banish  the  idea  of 
God  and  continue  as  a  reasoning  entity.  Of  the  First  Cause 
we  know  nothing,  of  the  Ultimate  Issue  we  know  even 
less,  but  my  own  faith  is  that  as  long  as  the  idea  of  God 
persists,  Man  himself  will  not  perish.  I  know  there  are 
many  who  will  say  that  science  is  against  me.  They  will 
say  that  there  is  nothing  inherent  in  the  mere  idea  of 
God  which  will  or  can  prevent  an  earthquake  banishing 
all  forms  of  organic  life  from  this  planet  in  sixty  seconds. 
Well,  it  is  my  faith  that  if  that  came  to  pass  Man  would 
still  persist  in  some  other  form.  Science  would  at  once 
rejoin  that  he  would  cease  to  be  Man,  but  to  my  own  psychic 
experience  that  is  not  at  all  a  clear  proposition.  Science  is 
based  upon  reason  which  states  as  an  absolute  fact  that  two 
and  two  make  four.  The  idea  of  God  is  based  upon  the 
fact  that  two  and  two  plus  One  make  five,  and  all  the  sci- 
ence and  all  the  clear  and  exact  thinking  in  the  world  can't 
alter  it.  Man  is  only  a  reasoning  animal  up  to  a  point.  He 
has  only  to  keep  exclusively  to  reason  to  bring  about  his  own 
defeat.  Every  thinking  mind,  I  assume,  must  oscillate  at 
some  period  of  its  development  between  Reason  on  the  one 
hand  (two  and  two  make  four)  and  Experience  (twofiand 
two  make  five)  on  the  other.  Well,  if  it  won't  bore  you" 
.  .  .  "Go  on,  go  on!"  cried  the  meeting,  not  out  of  polite- 
ness merely,  since  all  felt  the  fascination  of  the  unconven- 
tional and  childlike  personality  of  James  Thorneycroft. 
i,  .  .  "I  will  give  you  in  as  few  words  as  I  can  the  experi- 
323 


THE  SAILOR 

ence  that  happened  to  me  nearly  thirty  years  ago,  which  laid 
at  rest  all  doubts  I  might  ever  have  had  on  this  point. 

"At  that  time  I  was  a  clerk  in  a  bank  at  Blackhampton. 
Employed  at  the  bank  was  a  young  porter."  .  .  . 

For  a  reason  he  could  never  explain,  a  strange  thrill 
suddenly  ran  through  Henry  Harper. 

"...  And  this  young  chap  was  one  of  the  best  and 
most  promising  fellows  I  ever  met.  He  belonged  to  the 
working  class,  but  he  was  tremendously  keen  to  improve 
himself.  When  I  met  him  first  he  couldn't  even  read — it 
makes  one  smile  to  hear  people  talk  about  the  good  olo* 
days! — but  he  very  soon  learned,  and  then  he  began  to 
worry  things  out  for  himself.  I  lent  him  one  or  two  books 
myself  .  .  .  John  Stuart  Mill,  I  remember,  and  that  old 
fool  Carlyle,  who  ruled  the  roast  at  that  time." — Here  a 
bearded  gentleman  at  the  back  had  to  be  called  to  order.— 
"Then  we  both  began  to  get  into  deeper  waters,  and  with 
assistance  from  Germany,  soon  found  ourselves  in  a  flood 
of  isms,  although  I  am  bound  to  say  without  being  able  to 
make  very  much  of  them. 

"The  time  came,  however,  when  this  young  man,  who 
was  really  a  very  fine  fellow,  took  the  wrong  turning.  He 
somehow  got  entangled  with  a  woman,  a  thoroughly  bad  lot 
I  afterwards  found  out,  a  person  of  a  type  much  below 
his  own.  He  was  an  extraordinarily  simple  chap,  he  had 
the  heart  of  a  child.  From  a  mistaken,  an  utterly  mistaken 
sense  of  chivalry,  he  finally  married  her. 

"If  ever  a  man  was  imposed  upon  and  entrapped  it  was 
this  poor  fellow.  Of  course  he  didn't  know  that  at  first. 
But  from  the  hour  of  his  marriage  deterioration  set  in. 
Ambition  and  all  desire  for  self-improvement  began  to  go. 
Then  he  lost  his  mental  poise,  and  he  became  cynical,  and 
no  wonder,  because  that  woman  made  his  life  a  hell.  Even 
when  the  truth  came  to  him  he  stuck  to  her,  really  I  thinlc 
324 


THE  SAILOR 

out  of  some  quixotic  notion  he  had  of  reforming  her. 
Certainly  he  stuck  to  her  long  after  he  ought  to  have,  be- 
cause slowly  but  surely  she  began  to  drag  him  down.  At 
last,  when  the  full  truth  came  home  to  him,  he  killed  her 
in  a  sudden  fit  of  madness. 

"Now,  there  was  no  real  evil  in  that  man.  There  were 
one  or  two  soft  places  in  him,  no  doubt,  as  there  are  in 
most  of  us,  but  it  is  my  firm  belief  that  had  he  married 
the  right  woman  he  would  one  day  have  been  a  credit  to 
his  country.  He  was  in  every  way  a  very  fine  fellow — in 
fact,  he  was  too  fine  a  fellow.  It  was  the  vein  of  quixotic 
chivalry  in  his  nature  that  undid  him.  That  was  the  cruel- 
est  part  of  the  whole  thing.  And  I  am  bound  to  say  that 
the  doubts  the  higher  criticism  had  put  into  my  mind  were 
very  much  assisted  by  the  fact  that  it  was  this  poor  chap's 
real  nobility  of  soul  which  destroyed  him. 

"From  the  point  of  view  of  reason,  any  man  was  wrong 
to  marry  such  a  woman,  even  allowing  for  the  fact  that  he 
was  ignorant  of  her  real  character  and  vocation  when  he 
married  her.  From  the  point  of  view  of  ethics  he  was 
wrong;  that  is  to  say,  he  had  not  even  infringed  the  code 
of  conventional  morality,  and  was  therefore  under  no  obli- 
gation to  do  so.  And  where  he  was  doubly  wrong  in  the 
sight  of  reason  and  ethics,  and  where,  in  the  sight  of  the 
Saviour  of  mankind,  he  was  so  magnificently  right,  was  in 
sticking  to  her  in  the  way  he  did. 

"And  yet  that  man  came  to  the  gallows.  For  years  after- 
wards I  could  never  think  of  him  without  a  feeling  of  in- 
ward rage  that  almost  amounted  to  blasphemy.  But  to 
return  to  Reason  v.  Experience,  I  am  merely  telling  this 
story  for  the  sake  of  what  I  am  going  to  say  now.  I  went 
to  see  that  poor  man  in  prison  after  his  trial,  when  he 
had  only  one  day  to  live,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  look 
of  him.  He  was  like  a  saint.  He  looked  into  my  eyes 
325 


THE  SAILOR 

and  took  my  hand  and  he  said,  and  I  can  hear  his  words 
now,  'Mr.  Thorncycroft,  you  can  take  it  from  me,  there  is 
a  God.' 

"I  have  never  forgotten  those  words.  And  many  times 
since  they  were  spoken  I  firmly  believe  it  has  only  been 
the  words  of  my  poor  friend,  Henry  Harper,  spoken  on  the 
brink  of  a  shameful  grave,  which  have  saved  me."  The 
name  fell  unconsciously  from  the  lips  of  James  Thorney- 
croft. 

XXIV 

THE  Sailor  never  went  again   to  the  meetings  of  the 
Social  Debating  Society  at  Crosbie's  in  the  Strand. 
Somehow  he  had  not  the  courage.    The  simple  un- 
adorned story  of  James  Thorneycroft  had  taken  complete 
possession  of  his  mind. 

Without  making  any   researches  into  the  subject,   some 
instinct  which   transcended  reason,   which   transcended   ex- 
perience itself,  told  him  that  the  Henry  Harper  of  the  story 
was  his  own  father.     Moreover,  he  was  prepared  to  affirm 
that  it  was  his  own  presence  in  that  room — unknown  as  he 
.  was  to  James  Thorneycroft  to  whom  he  had  never  spoken 
a  word  in  his  life — which  had  been  responsible  for  the  story's 
t  telling. 

This  clear  conviction  brought  no  shame  to  Henry  Har- 
per.   No  man  could  have  been  more  amply  vindicated  in  the 
sight  of  others  than  his  father  had  been  by  him  who  had 
given  his  story  with  a  poignancy  which  had  silenced  all  criti- 
cism of  the  deductions  he  had  ventured  to  draw  from  it. 
The  feeling  uppermost  in   the  mind   of   Henry   Harper 
was  that  one  world  more  had  been  revealed.     At  various 
times  in  his  life  he  had  had   intimations  of   the  Unseen. 
There  was  something  beyond  himself  with  which  he  had  been 
326 


THE  SAILOR 

in  familiar  contact.  But  up  till  now  he  had  never  thought 
about  it  much. 

The  story  he  had  heard  seemed  to  alter  everything.  In 
a  subtle  way  his  whole  outlook  was  changed.  The  fact 
that  his  father  had  died  such  a  death  brought  with  it  no 
sense  of  ignominy.  It  was  too  remote,  too  far  beyond  him; 
besides,  the  man  who  had  told  the  story  had  been  careful 
to  show  his  father's  true  character. 

It  was  almost  inconceivable  that  he  did  not  apply  the 
logic  of  this  terrible  event  to  his  own  case.  By  now  it 
should  have  been  clear  that  he  was  literally  treading  the 
same  path.  Perhaps  the  voice  of  reason  could  not  argue 
with  the  overwhelming  forces  which  now  had  Henry  Harper 
in  their  grip.  Once  they  had  driven  him  into  an  identical 
position  they  forced  him  to  act  in  a  similar  way.  Just  as 
the  father  had  made  the  diastrous  error  of  setting  himself 
to  reform  his  wife  when  he  had  found  out  what  she  was, 
the  son  was  now  preparing  to  repeat  it. 

He  determined  upon  a  great  effort  to  win  Cora  from 
drink. 

Since  the  quarrel  over  the  man  in  the  taxi,  which  had 
occurred  nearly  two  months  ago,  they  had  drifted  further 
apart.  Cora  had  behaved  with  great  unwisdom  and  she 
was  aware  of  the  fact.  But  she  was  not  going  to  risk  the 
loss  of  the  golden  eggs  if  she  could  possibly  help  it.  She 
had  been  shaken  more  than  a  little  by  her  own  folly,  and 
if  Harry  had  not  been  a  dead-beat  fool  it  must  have  meant 
a  pretty  decisive  nail  in  her  coffin.  Even  as  it  was,  and  in 
spite  of  the  softness  for  which  she  despised  him,  his  tone 
had  hardened  perceptibly  since  the  incident.  Not  that  she 
cared  very  much  for  that.  She  did  not  believe  he  had  it  in 
him  to  go  to  extremities.  And  yet  now  he  had  taken  this 
new  tone  she  was  not  quite  sure.  Perhaps  he  was  not 
quite  so  "soppy"  as  her  friends  always  declared  him  to  be. 
327 


THE  SAILOR 

Be  that  as  It  may,  Cora  accepted  it  in  good  part  when 
Harry  took  upon  himself  to  beg  her  earnestly  to  check  her 
habit  of  drinking  more  than  she  ought.  She  was  even  a 
little  touched;  she  had  not  expected  a  solicitude  which  she 
knew  she  didn't  deserve.  Instead  of  "telling  him  off,"  as 
she  felt  she  ought  to  have  done,  she  promised  to  do  her  best 
to  meet  his  wishes. 

He  was  so  grateful  that  he  tried  to  find  a  way  of  help- 
ing her.  He  must  let  her  see  that  he  was  ready  to  assist 
any  effort  she  might  make  by  every  means  in  his  power. 
Therefore,  several  evenings  a  week  he  accompanied  her  to 
the  Roc  and  sometimes  they  went  on,  as  formerly,  to  a 
play  or  a  music  hall. 

When,  after  an  absence  of  many  months,  Henry  Harper 
reappeared  in  these  haunts  of  fashion,  he  had  to  run  the 
gantlet  of  the  girls  and  the  boys.  But  Cora  was  secretly 
gratified  to  find  that  he  was  much  better  able  to  take  care 
of  himself  now.  Those  months  of  sequestration,  unknown 
to  her,  had  been  a  period  of  very  remarkable  development. 
He  had  been  mixing  on  terms  of  equality  with  a  class  much 
above  hers,  he  had  been  enlarging  the  scope  of  his  observa- 
tion, he  had  been  deepening  his  experience.  Moreover,  he 
had  discovered  the  letter  aitch,  and  with  the  help  of  the 
indefatigable  Madame  Sadleir,  who  was  a  skillful  and  con- 
1  scientious  teacher,  was  now  making  use  of  the  new  knowl- 
edge. 

Yes,  there  was  a  great  improvement  in  Harry.  In  the 
opinion  of  his  critics  he  was  much  more  a  man  of  the  world ; 
callow  youths  and  insipid  ladies  of  the  town  could  no  longer 
"come  it  over  him"  in  the  way  that  had  formerly  delighted 
them.  Even  Miss  Bonser  and  Miss  Press  had  to  use  discre- 
tion. The  new  knowledge  did  not  make  him  a  prig,  but  it 
seemed  to  give  his  character  an  independence  and  a  depth 
which  called  for  respectful  treatment. 
328 


THE  SAILOR 

He  disliked  these  evenings  as  much  as  ever.  The  Roc  and 
Cora's  friends  could  never  have  any  sort  of  attraction  for 
Henry  Harper.  But  there  was  now  the  sense  of  duty  tg 
sustain  him.  He  was  making  a  heroic  effort  to  save  Cora 
from  herself,  yet  he  sometimes  felt  in  his  heart  that  such 
a  woman  was  hardly  worth  the  saving. 

The  fact  was,  it  was  no  use  disguising  it  now,  she  jarred 
every  nerve  in  his  soul.  The  more  he  developed  the  more 
hopeless  she  grew.  He  knew  now  that  she  was  very  com- 
mon, sordid  clay.  It  was  not  in  her  to  rise  or  to  respond. 
She  was  crass,  heavy-witted,  coarse-fibered ;  his  effort  had  to 
be  made  against  fearful,  and  as  it  seemed  with  the  new 
perceptions  that  were  coming  upon  him,  ever  increasing 
odds. 

By  this  he  had  learned  from  the  new  and  finer  world 
into  which  his  talent  had  brought  him  that  Cora  had  but  a 
thin  veneer  of  spurious  refinement  after  all.  He  knew 
enough  now  to  see  how  hopelessly  wrong  she  was  in  every- 
thing, from  the  heart  outwards.  It  began  to  hurt  him  more 
and  more  to  be  in  her  company  in  public  places.  Some- 
times he  could  hardly  bear  to  sit  at  the  same  table  with  her, 
so  alien  she  was  from  the  people  he  was  meeting  now  on 
terms  approximating  to  equality. 

Edward  Ambrose,  realizing  how  the  young  man  was  striv- 
ing to  rise  with  his  fortunes,  was  doing  all  that  lay  in  his 
power  to  help  him.  At  this  time,  the  name  of  Mrs.  Henry 
Harper  had  not  been  mentioned  to  him.  Several  times  the 
Sailor  had  been  at  the  point  of  revealing  that  sinister  figure 
in  the  background  of  his  life.  More  than  once  he  had  felt 
that  it  was  the  due  of  this  judicious  friend  that  he  should 
know  at  least  of  the  existence  of  Cora.  But  each  time 
Ee  had  tried  to  screw  his  courage  to  the  task  a  kind  of 
nausea  had  overwhelmed  him.  The  truth  was  Edward 
Ambrose  and  Cora  stood  at  opposite  poles,  and  when- 
329 


THE  SAILOR 

ever  he   tried   to   speak  of   her   it  became   impossible   to 
do  so. 

Henry  Harper  had  been  present  at  several  of  the  very 
agreeable  bachelor  dinner  parties  in  Bury  Street,  and  on 
(each  occasion  his  host  had  noted  an  honorable  and  increas- 
ing effort  on  the  part  of  the  neophyte  to  rise  to  the  meas- 
'iire  of  his  opportunity.  There  could  be  no  doubt  he  was 
coming  on  amazingly.  The  rough  edges  were  being 
smoothed  down  and  he  was  always  so  simple  and  unaf- 
fected that  it  was  hardly  possible  for  liberal-minded  men 
\whom  fortune  had  given  a  place  in  the  stalls  at  the  human 
'comedy  to  refrain  from  liking  him. 

"Henry,"  said  his  friend  when  the  young  man  looked  in 
one  afternoon  in  Pall  Mall,  "what  are  you  doing  tomorrow 
week,  Friday,  the  twenty-third?" 

Henry  was   doing   nothing   in   particular. 

"Then  you  must  come  and  dine  with  me,"  said  Edward 
Ambrose. 

"I'll  be  delighted." 

"Wait  a  minute.  That's  not  the  important  part.  You'll 
have  to  take  somebody  in  to  dinner.  And  she's  about  the 
nicest  girl  I  know,  and  she  wants  very  much  to  meet  the 
author  of  'Dick  Smith,'  and  I  promised  that  she  should. 
There  will  be  two  or  three  others  .  .  .  Ellis  and  his  fiancee 
...  I  told  you  Ellis  had  just  got  engaged  .  .  .  but  we 
shall  not  be  more  than  ten  all  told.  Will  you  face  it,  Henry, 
just  to  oblige  a  friend?" 

A  dinner  party  of  ten  with  ladies  was  rather  a  facer  for 
Mr.  Henry  Harper,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  his  social  laurels 
were  clustering  thicker  upon  him. 

"I  suppose  I'll  have  to  if  you've  promised  her,"  he  said 
with  not  ungracious  reluctance. 

"I'm  sure  you'll  like  her  as  much  as  she'll  like  you,"  said 
Edward  Ambrose. 

330 


THE  SAILOR 

That  remains  to  be  seen  was  the  mental  reservation  in 
the  mind  of  the  Sailor. 

XXV 

FRIDAY  week  soon  came,  but  very  unfortunately  it 
found  Cora  "in  one  of  her  moods." 
The  first  intimation  she  had  of  the  dinner  party 
was  the  arrival  of  a  parcel  of  evening  clothes,  which  Harry 
had  purchased  that  morning  in  the  Strand.  As  ladies  were 
to  be  present,  his  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  had  led  him 
at  last  to  incur  this  long-promised  expense.  Indeed,  Cora 
herself  had  said  that  sooner  or  later  this  would  have  to  be. 
But  now  that  the  clothes  had  actually  arrived  and  she  in- 
sisted upon  being  told  for  what  purpose  they  were  required, 
she  flew  into  a  tantrum. 

In  Cora's  opinion,  there  had  been  too  much  dining  al- 
ready with  this  Mr.  Ambrose,  and  now  that  Harry  was 
being  invited  to  meet  ladies,  had  Mr.  Ambrose  been  a  true 
gentleman  she  would  have  been  invited  as  well.  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  that  he  was  not  aware  of  her  existence.  But 
in  any  case  Harry  ought  not  to  be  going  to  meet  other 
women  without  his  wife. 

Cora  became  very  sulky.  And  she  mingled  unamiability 
with  abuse.  The  sad  truth  was,  and  her  husband  realized 
it  with  intense  bitterness  in  the  course  of  that  afternoon, 
she  Had  begun  drinking  heavily  again  in  spite  of  all  that 
he  could  do  to  check  her.  It  was  a  failure  of  the  will. 
There  was  no  doubt  life  bored  her.  The  restraints  she 
had  recently  put  upon  herself,  not  in  regard  to  drink  alone, 
had  become  more  than  she  could  bear.  For  a  week  past 
she  had  known  that  another  "break-out"  was  imminent. 

She  was  now  inclined  to  make  this  dinner  party  to  whicb 
she  was  not  invited  a  pretext  for  it. 
22  iii 


THE  SAILOR 

"I  see  what  it  is,"  she  said  with  ugly  eyes.  "Your  law- 
ful wife  is  not  good  enough  for  my  lord  Ambrose  and  his 
lady  friends." 

This  stung,  it  was  so  exactly  the  truth. 

"But  don't  think  for  a  moment  I  am  going  to  take  it 
lying  down.  If  you  go  to  this  party  I'm  coming  too." 

"You  can't,"  said  her  husband  quietly — so  quietly  that  it 
made  her  furious. 

"Oh,  can't  I!" 

"No,  you  can't,"  he  said  with  a  finality  that  offered  no 
salve.  He  was  angry  with  his  own  weakness.  He  knew 
that  it  had  caused  him  to  drift  into  a  false  position.  And 
yet  what  could  he  do — with  such  a  wife  as  that? 

"You're  ashamed  of  me,"  she  said,  with  baffled  rage  in 
her  voice. 

"You've  no  right  to  say  that."  It  was  a  feeble  rejoinder, 
but  silence  would  have  been  worse. 

"I  am  going  to  give  you  fair  warning,  Harry.  If  you  go 
to  this  party  and  meet  other  women  while  I  am  left  at  home, 
I  shall.  .  .  ." 

"You'll  what?"  he  said,  recoiling  from  her  heavy  breath- 
ing ugliness. 

"I  shall  go  a  good  old  blind  tonight,  I  warn  you." 

She  spoke  with  full  knowledge  of  the  effort  he  had  made 
to  help  her  and  all  that  it  had  cost  him. 

"It  won't  be  half  a  blind,  I'm  telling  you,"  she  said,  read- 
ing his  eyes.  "I've  done  my  best  for  weeks  and  weeks  to 
please  you.  I've  hardly  touched  a  drop — and  this  is  all 
the  thanks  I  get.  I'm  flesh  and  blood  like  other  people." 

She  saw  with  malicious  triumph  that  she  had  him  cor- 
nered. 

"Look  here,  Cora,"  he  said,  "it's  too  late  to  get  out  of 
this  now.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  or  right  for  me  to  break  my 
word  to  Mr.  Ambrose.  But  I'll  promise  this.  If  you  will 
332 


THE  SAILOR 

only  keep  sober  tonight,  I'll  never  go  to  another  party 
without  .  .  .  without  your  permission." 

"Without  my  permission!" 

"Without  you,  then,  if  that's  what  you  want  me  to  say." 

"Oh,  yes!    I  don't  think!" 

"I  don't  ever  break  my  word,"  he  said  simply.  "You 
know  that.  If  I  say  a  thing  I  try  my  best  to  act  up  to 
it." 

"Well,  it's  not  good  enough  for  me,  anyhow,"  she  said, 
with  a  sudden  and  jealous  knowledge  of  her  own  inferiority. 
"If  you  leave  me  tonight,  so  help  me  God,  I'll  get  absolutely 
blind." 

She  saw  the  horror  in  his  eyes  and  was  glad.  It  gave  her 
a  sense  of  power.  But  it  brought  its  own  Nemesis.  She 
forgot  just  then  that  he  alone  stood  between  her  and  the 
gutter. 

"Be  reasonable,  Cora,"  he  said  weakly.  There  did  not 
seem  to  be  anything  else  he  could  say. 

"I've  warned  you,"  she  said  savagely.  "Leave  me  to- 
night and  you'll  see.  I'll  not  be  made  a  mark  of  by  no 
one,  not  if  I  know  it." 

In  great  distress  he  retired  to  his  bedroom  in  order  to 
think  things  out.  He  felt  that  he  was  much  in  the  wrong. 
Somehow  he  did  not  seem  to  be  keeping  to  the  terms  of 
the  bargain.  Up  to  a  point  Cora  had  reason  and  justice 
on  her  side.  Yet  beyond  that  point  was  the  duty  to  his 
friends. 

In  a  miserable  state  of  mind  he  sat  on  the  bed.  He  was 
desperately  unwilling  to  undo  all  the  good  work  of  the  past 
six  weeks,  but  it  was  certain  that  if  he  left  Cora  in  her 
present  mood  something  would  happen.  Twice  he  almost 
made  up  his  mind  not  to  go,  but  each  time  he  was  over- 
powered by  the  thought  of  his  friend.  It  was  really  impos- 
sible to  leave  him  in  the  lurch  without  a  shadow  of  excuse. 
333 


THE  SAILOR 


At  last,  with  a  sense  of  acute  misery,  he  came  to  a  de- 
cision, or  rather  the  swift  passage  of  time  forced  it  upon 
him.  Suddenly  he  got  off  the  bed,  opened  the  parcel  and 
spread  out  the  new  clothes. 


BOOK   IV 

DISINTEGRATION 


THE  process  of  dressing  for  Henry  Harper's  first 
dinner  party  was  not  a  very  agreeable  operation.  No 
man  could  have  undertaken  it  in  a  worse  state  of 
despair.  The  new  links  he  had  bought  could  only  be  per- 
suaded with  difficulty  into  the  cuffs  of  the  boiled  shirt; 
further  trouble  presented  itself  with  the  collar,  and  finally, 
when  all  the  major  operations  were  complete,  he  had  to 
solve  the  problem  of  a  white  tie  or  a  black  one.  In  the  end 
he  chose  a  black  one  on  the  ground  that  it  would  be  more 
modest,  although  he  was  not  sure  that  it  was  right. 

When  at  last  he  was  complete  in  every  detail,  he  returned 
to  the  sitting-room  where  his  wife  still  was.  She  was  smok- 
ing a  cigarette. 

"Cora,"  he  said  quietly  and  politely,  "I  am  only  going 
because  I  must.  I  couldn't  look  Mr.  Ambrose  in  the  face 
if  I  let  him  down  without  a  fair  excuse.  But  I'll  promise 
this.  I'll  never  go  to  another  party  without  you,  and  I 
give  you  my  solemn  word  I  wouldn't  go  now  if  there  was 
a  way  out." 

She  made  no  answer.  Without  looking  at  him,  but  with 
sour  rage  in  her  eyes,  she  threw  the  end  of  the  cigarette  she 
was  smoking  into  the  fire  and  lit  another. 

The  young  man  was  rather  short  of  time,  and  remember- 
ing a  former  excursion  to  Bury  Street  which  was  yet  quite 
335 


THE  SAILOR 

easy  to  find  from  the  top  of  the  Avenue,  he  took  a  taxi. 
Driving  in  solitary  state  he  was  very  nervous  and  strangely 
uncomfortable.  The  evening  clothes  felt  horribly  new  and 
conspicuous,  and  they  didn't  seem  to  fit  anywhere.  Then 
again  he  knew  this  was  an  adventure  of  the  first  magnitude. 
The  bachelor  parties  of  two  or  three  intimate  friends  were 
on  a  different  plane  from  an  affair  of  this  kind.  How- 
ever, he  determined  to  thrust  unworthy  fears  aside.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  he  was  far  better  equipped  than  he  had 
been  before  Madame  Sadleir  took  him  in  hand.  Besides, 
when  all  was  said,  the  feeling  uppermost  in  his  mind  just 
now,  outweighing  even  the  black  thought  of  Cora,  was  a 
sense  of  exhilaration.  Somehow  he  felt,  as  his  swift  ma- 
chine crossed  Piccadilly  Circus,  in  spite  of  Cora,  in  spite 
of  new  clothes,  in  spite  of  bitter  inexperience,  that  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  entering  the  golden 
realm  whose  every  door  had  been  double-locked,  thrice- 
bolted  against  him  by  the  dark  and  evil  machinations  of 
destiny. 

Even  when  the  taxi  stopped  before  the  now  familiar  por- 
tals in  Bury  Street  and  he  had  paid  the  driver  his  fare,  he 
still  had  a  sense  of  adventure.  And  this  was  heightened  by 
what  was  going  on  around  him.  The  magic  door  was  open 
wide  to  the  night,  the  august  form  of  Portman,  the  butler, 
was  framed  in  it,  and  at  that  very  moment  the  Fairy  Prin- 
cess was  descending  from  her  chariot. 

How  did  he  know  it  was  she?  Some  occult  faculty 
mysteriously  told  him.  She  was  tall  and  dark  and  smiling; 
a  bright  blue  cloak  was  round  her;  he  saw  a  white  satin 
slipper.  It  was  She.  Beyond  a  doubt  it  was  the  real  Hyde 
Park  lady  he  was  going  to  take  in  to  dinner. 

He  hung  back  by  the  curb,  a  whole  discreet  minute,  while 
Mr.  Portman  received  her.  She  made  some  smiling  remark 
that  Henry  Harper  couldn't  catch.  He  could  only  hear  the 
336 


THE  SAILOR 

beautiful  notes  of  her  voice.  They  were  those  of  a  siren,  a 
low  deep  music. 

The  Sailor  came  to  the  door  just  as  another  chariot  glided 
up.  He  greeted  Portman,  his  old  friend,  of  whom  he  was 
still  rather  in  awe,  and  doffed  his  coat  and  hat  in  the  en- 
trance hall  without  flurry,  and  then  went  slowly  up  the 
stairs  where  he  found  that  the  butler  had  already  preceded 
him.  Moreover,  he  was  just  in  time  to  hear  him  announce: 

"Miss  Pridmore." 

The  name  literally  sang  through  the  brain  of  the  Sailor. 
Where  had  he  heard  it?  But  he  had  not  time  then  to  hunt 
it  down  in  his  memory. 

"Mr.  Harper."  With  a  feeling  of  excitement  he  heard 
the  rolling,  unctuous  announcement. 

For  a  brief  instant  the  vigorous  grip  and  the  laughing 
face  of  his  host  put  all  further  speculation  to  flight.  Ed- 
ward Ambrose  was  in  great  heart  and  looking  as  only  the 
Edward  Ambroses  of  the  world  can  look  at  such  moments. 
But  he  merely  gave  Henry  Harper  time  to  note,  with  a 
little  stab  of  dismay,  that  the  tie  he  had  chosen  was  the 
wrong  color,  when  he  was  almost  hurled  upon  Miss  Prid- 
more. 

"This  is  Mr.  Harper,  Mary,  whom  you  wanted  to  meet." 
And  then  with  that  gay  note  which  the  Sailor  could  never 
sufficiently  approve:  "I  promised  him  one  admirer.  He 
wouldn't  have  come  without." 

Where  had  he  heard  that  name?  The  question  was  surg- 
ing upon  the  Sailor  as  he  stood  looking  at  her  and  waiting 
for  her  to  speak.  A  moment  ago  it  had  been  uttered  for  the 
first  time,  yet  it  was  strangely  familiar  to  him.  And  that 
face  of  clear-cut  good  sense,  with  eyes  of  a  fathomless  gray, 
where  had  he  seen  it? 

"I  should  love  to  have  been  a  sailor."  Those  were  her 
first  words.  That  voice,  where  had  he  heard  it?  It  seemed 
337 


THE  SAILOR 

to  be  coming  back  to  him  out  of  the  years,  out  of  the  meas- 
ureless Pacific.  A  Hyde  Park  lady  was  speaking  in  Bury 
Street,  St.  James',  but  at  that  moment  he  was  not  in  Lon- 
don, not  in  England,  not  in  Europe  at  all.  He  was  on  the 
high  seas  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey,  he  was  in  his  bunk 
in  the  half-deck.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  sputtering  candle) 
in  the  other  a  torn  fragment  of  the  Brooklyn  Eagle.  It 
was  Klondyke  who  was  speaking.  The  Fairy  Princess  was 
speaking  with  the  voice  of  his  immortal  friend. 

"I  have  a  brother  who  has  sailed  before  the  mast." 

In  a  flash  he  remembered  the  inscription  in  Klondyke's 
Bible :  "Jack  Pridmore  is  my  name,  England  is  my  nation." 
The  mystery  was  solved.  This  was  Klondyke's  sister. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  resemblance  of  voice,  of  fea- 
ture; this  was  the  unforgettable  girl  he  had  seen  with  Klon- 
dyke in  Hyde  Park. 

He  suddenly  remembered  that  he  must  say  something. 
It  would  hardly  be  proper  to  stand  there  all  night  with  his 
mouth  open,  yet  with  not  a  word  coming  out  of  it. 

"I  think  I  know  }'our  brother,"  were  his  first  words. 
They  were  not  the  result  of  deliberate  choice.  Some  new 
and  strange  power  seemed  to  have  taken  complete  possession 
of  him. 

"You've  met  my  brother  Jack?" 

"Yes.  We  were  aboard  the  same  craft  pretty  near  two' 
years.  We  used  to  call  him  Klondyke." 

A  delightful  laugh  rang  in  his  ears. 

"What  a  perfect  name  for  him!  I  must  tell  that  to  my 
mother.  It  was  because  he  had  been  in  the  Klondyke,  1 
suppose." 

"Yes,  that  was  it.  He  had  been  in  the  Klondyke.  He 
used  to  yarn  about  it  on  the  Margaret  Carey.  We  were 
both  berthed  for'ard  in  the  half-deck.  His  bunk  was  under 


338 


THE  SAILOR 

"Isn't  it  odd  that  we  should  meet  like  this!" 

"Yes,  it's  queer.  But  there  are  many  queer  things  in 
the  world,  ain't  there?  At  least  I've  seen  a  goodish  few 
and  so  has  Klondyke.  But  he  was  a  grand  chap." 

Mary  Pridmore,  who  felt  rather  the  same  about  her 
brother  Jack,  although  he  was  not  a  brother  to  be  proud  of, 
but  quite  the  reverse,  as  the  members  of  his  family  always 
made  a  point  of  explaining  to  him  whenever  they  had  the 
chance,  was  somehow  touched  by  the  tone  of  reverence  with 
which  his  shipmate  spoke  of  him. 

"He's  the  black  sheep  of  the  family,  of  course  you  know 
that,"  she  said,  feeling  it  necessary  to  take  precautions  against 
this  delightful  young  sailorman  who  had  already  intrigued 
her. 

"He  used  to  say  so,"  said  the  Sailor,  with  the  simplicity 
of  his  kind.  "He  used  to  say  his  mother  was  fearfully  cut  up 
about  him.  She  thought  he  was  a  rolling  stone  and  he  would 
never  be  any  good  at  anything.  But  you  don't  think  so, 
Miss  Pridmore,  do  you?"  The  eyes  of  the  young  man 
delighted  her  as  they  looked  directly  into  hers.  "No,  I  can 
see  you  don't.  You  think  Klondyke's  all  right." 

"Why  should  you  think,  Mr.  Harper,  that  I  think  any- 
•  thing  of  the  kind?"  The  voice  was  rebuking,  but  the  eyes 
.Were  laughing,  and  it  was  the  eyes  that  mattered. 

"You  can't  deny  it!"  he  said  with  a  charming  air  of  de- 
fiance. "And  if  I  was  Klondyke's  sister  I  wouldn't 
want  to." 

"As  long  as  mother  never  hears  anyone  speak  of  him 
like  that  it  really  doesn't  matter  what  we  think  of  him, 
you  know." 

This  wonderful  creature,  who  in  the  sight  of  the  Sailor 
was  perfection  from  head  to  heel,  whose  very  voice  he  could 
only  compare  to  John  Milton  whom  he  had  lately  discov- 
ered, let  her  hand  rest  on  his  arm  very  lightly,  yet  with  a 
339 


THE  SAILOR 

touch  that  was  almost  affectionate.     And  then  they  went 
downstairs  to  dinner. 


II 


POLITENESS  forbade  that  they  should  talk  all  the 
time  to  each  other  during  that  enchanted  meal.  Mr. 
Ellis  was  at  the  other  side  of  Miss  Pridmore,  and 
an  unknown  lady  of  great  charm  and  volubility  was  at 
the  other  side  of  Mr.  Harper.  These  very  agreeable  peo- 
ple had  to  have  a  little  share  of  their  conversation,  but 
during  the  major  part  of  a  delightful  affair,  Henry  Harper 
was  talking  as  he  had  never  talked  in  his  life  before,  not 
even  to  Klondyke  himself,  to  Klondyke's  sister. 

It  was  not  only  about  Klondyke  that  they  talked.  They 
had  other  things  in  common.  Miss  Pridmore  was  a  per- 
fectly sincere,  a  frankly  outspoken  admirer  of  "The  Ad- 
ventures of  Dick  Smith."  She  had  never  read  anything  like 
it;  moreover  she  was  quite  fearless  and  nobly  unquali- 
fied in  her  admiration  of  that  fascinating  tale  of  adven- 
ture, for  the  most  part  murderous  adventure,  on  the  high 
seas. 

"We  all  have  great  arguments  at  home,"  she  said,  "as  to 
which  volume  is  the  best.  I  say  the  first.  To  me  those 
island  chapters  are  incomparable.  The  Island  of  San  Pedro. 
I  say  that's  better  than  'Robinson  Crusoe'  itself,  which 
makes  Uncle  George  furious.  He  considers  it  sacrilege  to 
say  anything  of  the  kind." 

"It  is  so,"  said  the  author  with  a  little  quiver  of  hap* 
piness. 

"But  you  are  bound  to  say  that,  aren't  you?" 

"I  wouldn't  say  it  if  I  didn't  think  it,  Miss  Pridmore." 

The  quaint  solemnity  delighted  her. 

"Uncle  George  says  the  Island  of  San  Pedro  is  an  imi- 
340 


THE  SAILOR 

tation  of  'Robinson  Crusoe,'  but  nothing  will  ever  make  me 
admit  that,  so  you  had  better  not  admit  it  either.  Please 
say  it  isn't,  to  save  my  reputation  for  omniscience." 

"I  had  not  read  'Robinson  Crusoe'  when  I  wrote  the 
Island,  and  I  suppose  if  I  had  I  should  have  written  it 
differently." 

"It's  a  very  good  thing  you  hadn't.  There's  nothing  like 
the  Island  anywhere  to  my  mind.  You  can  see  and  feel 
and  hear  and  smell  and  taste  that  Island.  It  is  so  real  that 
when  poor  Dick  was  put  ashore  by  the  drunken  captain  of 
the  brigantine  Excelsior  I  literally  daren't  go  to  bed.  And 
my  brother  Jack  says — and  I  always  quote  this  to  Uncle 
George — that  no  more  lifelike  picture  of  a  windjammer — it 
is  a  windjammer,  isn't  it? " 

"That's  right." 

"And  of  an  island  in  the  Pacific  could  possibly  be  given." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  quite  say  that  myself,"  said  the  sailor- 
man,  with  the  blood  singing  in  his  ears. 

"Of  course  not.     It  wouldn't  be  right  for  you  to  say  it."" 

"Where  is  Klondyke  now,  Miss  Pridmore?"  he  asked 
suddenly. 

"No  one  knows.  He  probably  doesn't  know  himself. 
The  last  letter  my  mother  had  from  him  arrived  about 
two  months  ago.  He  was  then  in  the  middle  of  Abyssinia. 
But  he  has  moved  since.  He  never  stays  long  anywhere 
when  the  wanderlust  is  on  him.  But  we  don't  worry.  He'll 
turn  up  one  of  these  days  quite  unexpectedly,  looking  rather 
like  a  tramp,  and  will  settle  down  to  civilization  for  a  short 
time;  and  then  one  morning  he'll  go  off  again  to  the  most 
outlandish  place  he  can  think  of,  and  we  may  not  see  or  hear 
anything  of  him  for  months  or  even  years." 

A  dull  period  followed  the  dessert.  Miss  Pridmore  and 
the  other  ladies  went  and  the  Sailor  had  to  remain  with 
four  comparatively  flat  and  tame  gentlemen  who  smoked 


THE  SAILOR 

very  good  cigars  and  talked  of  matters  which  the  young  man 
did  not  feel  competent  to  enter  upon. 

It  was  an  irksome  twenty  minutes,  but  it  had  to  be 
endured.  And  it  was  not  really  so  very  difficult  because  he 
was  in  heaven. 

At  last  when  the  four  other  gentlemen  had  solemnly 
smoked  their  cigars,  and  he  had  smoked  the  mild  cigarette 
which  contented  him,  they  went  upstairs.  And  as  they  did 
so  he  felt  the  hand  of  Edward  Ambrose  on  his  shoulder 
and  he  heard  a  laughing  voice  in  his  ear.  "Henry,  you  are 
going  great  guns." 

That  was  quite  true.  He  felt  wonderful.  There  is  no 
doubt  people  do  feel  wonderful  when  they  are  in  heaven. 
And  there  was  his  divinity  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the 
smaller  sofa,  and  as  soon  as  he  entered  he  was  summoned 
with  a  gesture  of  charming  imperiousness  which  the  boldest 
of  men  would  not  have  dared  to  disobey.  And  as  he 
came  to  her  she  laughingly  made  room  for  him.  He  sat 
by  her  side  and  fell  at  once  to  talking  again  of  Klondyke. 
From  Klondyke,  whom  she  would  not  admit  was  quite  the 
hero  the  author  of  "Dick  Smith"  considered  him  to  be, 
they  passed  to  the  High  Seas,  and  then  to  Literature,  and 
then  to  the  Drama,  and  then  to  Life  itself,  and  then  to  the 
High  Seas  again,  and  then  to  Edward  Ambrose,  whom  she 
spoke  of  with  great  affection  as  a  very  old  friend  of  hers 
and  of  her  family,  and  then  once  more  to  Life  itself.  After 
the  flight  of  a  winged  hour  she  rose  suddenly  and  held  out 
her  hand.  But  as  she  did  so  she  also  said  one  memorable 
thing. 

"Mr.  Harper" — her  fingers  were  touching  his — "promise, 
please,  you  will  come  to  tea  one  afternoon  soon.  No.  50, 
Queen  Street,  Mayfair.  I  am  going  to  write  it  on  a  piece 
of  paper  if  you  will  get  it  for  me,  so  that  there  will  be  no 
mistake." 

342 


THE  SAILOR 

The  Sailor  got  the  piece  of  paper  for  Miss  Pridmore.  As 
he  did  so  the  eternal  feminine  rejoiced  at  his  tall,  straight, 
cleanly  handsomeness,  in  spite  of  the  reach-me-down  which 
clothed  it. 

"Now  that  means  no  excuse,"  she  said,  with  a  little  touch 
of  royal  imperiousness  returning  upon  her.  "No.  50,  Queen 
Street.  One  of  those  little  houses  on  the  left.  About  half 
past  four.  Shall  we  say  Wednesday?  I  want  to  hear  you 
talk  to  my  mother  about  Klondyke." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  again,  and  then  after  a  number  of 
very  cordial  and  direct  good-bys  which  Klondyke  himself 
could  not  have  bettered,  she  went  downstairs  gayly  with  her 
host! 

"Tell  me,  Mary,"  said  Edward  Ambrose  on  the  way 
down,  "who  in  the  world  is  Klondyke?" 

"It's  Jack,"  she  said.  "They  were  together  on  board 
the  brigantine  Excelsior — although  that's  not  the  real  name 
of  it." 

"How  odd!"  said  Edward  Ambrose.  "But  what  a  fellow 
he  is  not  to  have  said  so.  When  one  remembers  how  he 
gloated  over  the  yarn  one  would  have  thought " 

"But  how  should  he  know?  It  must  have  been  years 
ago.  Yet  the  strange  thing  is  he  remembers  Jack  and  he 
knew  I  was  his  sister  because  we  are  so  exactly  alike,  which 
I  thought  very  tactless." 

"Naturally.  Did  you  like  him?"  The  question  came 
with  very  swift  directness. 

"He's  amazing."  The  answer  was  equally  swift,  equally 
direct.  "He  is  the  only  author  I  have  ever  met  who  comes 
near  to  being " 

"To  being  what?"  Mary  Pridmore  had  suddenly  re- 
membered that  she  was  being  escorted  downstairs  by  a 
distinguished  man  of  letters. 

"Do  you  press  the  question?" 
343 


THE  SAILOR 

"Certainly  I  press  the  question." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Mary  Pridmore.  "Wild  horses 
will  not  make  me  answer  it.  But  I  can  only  say  that  your 
young  man  is  as  wonderful  as  his  books.  He's  coming  to 
tea  on  Wednesday,  and  it  will  be  very  disappointing  if  you 
don't  come  as  well.  Good-by,  Edward.  It's  been  a  splen- 
did evening."  And  she  waved  her  hand  to  him  as  she 
sped  away  with  an  air  of  large  and  heroic  enjoyment  of 
the  universe,  while  Edward  Ambrose  stood  rather  wistfully 
at  the  door  watching  her  recede  into  the  night. 


Ill 


MY  friend,"  said  Edward  Ambrose,  as  he  helped  the 
last  departing  guest  into  his  overcoat,  "I  sup- 
pose you  know  you  have  made  a  conquest?" 

The  Sailor  was  not  aware  of  the  fact. 

"Mary  Pridmore  is  ...  well,  she  is  rather  .  .  .  she  is 
rather  .  .  ." 

"We  talked  a  lot,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  glow  in 
his  voice.  "I  hope  she  wasn't  bored.  But  as  she  was  Klon- 
dyke's  sister,  I  couldn't  help  letting  myself  go  a  bit.  She's 
— she's  just  my  idea  of  what  a  lady  ought  to  be." 

The  young  man,  who  was  still  in  heaven,  had  the  grace 
to  blush  at  such  an  indiscretion.  His  host  laughed. 

Said  he:  "Had  I  realized  that  you  were  such  a  very- 
dangerous  fellow,  I  don't  think  you  would  have  been  in- 
vited here  tonight.  I  mean  it,  Henry."  And  to  show  that 
he  didn't  mean  it  in  the  least,  Edward  Ambrose  gave  the 
Sailor  a  little  affectionate  push  into  Bury  Street. 

As  the  night  was  fine  and  time  was  his  own,  Henry  Har- 
per returned  on  foot  to  King  John's  Mansions.  He  did  not 
go  by  a  direct  route,  but  chose  Regent  Street,  Marylebone 
344 


THE  SAILOR 

Road,  Euston  Road,  and  other  circuitous  thoroughfares,  so 
that  the  journey  took  about  four  times  as  long  as  it  need 
have  done.  Midnight  had  struck  already  when  he  came 
to  the  top  of  the  Avenue. 

By  that  time  he  was  no  longer  in  heaven.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  had  fallen  out  of  paradise  in  Portland  Place. 
It  was  there  he  suddenly  remembered  Cora.  For  several  en- 
chanted hours  he  had  completely  forgotten  her.  He  had 
been  in  Elysium,  but  almost  opposite  the  Queen's  Hall  he 
fell  out  of  it.  It  was  there  the  unwelcome  truth  came  upon 
him  that  he  had  been  surrendering  himself  to  madness. 

He  clenched  his  teeth  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow  in 
the  face.  He  was  like  an  ill-found  ship  wrenched  from  its 
moorings  and  cast  adrift  in  mid-ocean.  God  in  heaven, 
how  was  he  to  go  home  to  that  unspeakable  woman  after 
such  a  draught  of  sheer  delight! 

For  a  moment,  standing  dazed  and  breathless  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road,  he  almost  wanted  to  shriek.  He  had  been 
drinking  champagne,  not  with  undignified  freedom,  yet  for 
unseasoned  temperaments  it  may  be  a  dangerous  beverage 
even  in  modest  quantities.  He  had  really  drunk  very  little, 
but  he  felt  that  in  the  situation  he  had  now  to  face  it  would 
have  been  better  to  have  left  it  alone. 

How  was  he  going  to  face  Cora  now  he  had  seen  the  peri, 
now  he  had  looked  within  the  Enchanted  Gates? 

There  was  only  one  possible  answer  to  the  question.  And 
that  had  come  to  him  as  he  had  crossed,  quite  unnecessarily, 
the  Marylebone  Road,  and  had  fetched  up  against  the  rail- 
ings of  Regent's  Park.  He  must  accept  the  issue  like  a  man. 
Setting  his  teeth  anew,  he  moved  in  an  easterly  direction 
towards  the  Euston  Road. 

He  allowed  himself  to  hope,  as  he  turned  the  latchkey  in 
the  door  of  No.  106,  King  John's  Mansions,  that  Cora  had 
not  carried  out  her  threat.  But  he  was  not  able  to  build 
345 


THE  SAILOR 

much  upon  it.  As  he  climbed  up  slowly  towards  the  roof 
of  the  flats  there  seemed  something  indescribably  squalid 
about  the  endless  flights  of  bleak,  iron-railed  stone  stairs. 

When  the  door  of  No.  106  opened  to  his  latchkey,  the  first 
thing  he  perceived  was  a  stealthy  reek  of  alcohol.  A  light 
was  in  the  passage;  and  then  as  he  closed  the  outer  door, 
he  caught  an  oddly  unexpected  sound  of  voices  coming 
through  the  half  open  door  of  the  sitting-room.  He  stood 
and  listened  tensely.  One  of  the  voices  was  that  of  a  man. 

It  was  not  necessary  to  enter  the  sitting-room  itself  to 
confirm  this  fact.  A  man's  hat,  one  of  the  sort  called  a  gibus, 
which  he  knew  was  only  worn  with  evening  clothes,  was 
hanging  on  one  of  the  pegs  in  the  passage.  An  overcoat 
lined  with  astrachan  was  under  it. 

He  could  hear  a  strange  voice  coming  from  the  sitting- 
room.  It  was  that  of  a  man  of  education,  but  it  had  a  sort 
of  huskiness  which  betrayed  the  familiar  presence  of  alcohol. 
Involuntarily,  he  stood  to  listen  at  the  half  open  door. 

"Cora,  old  girl,  you  are  as  tight  as  a  tick."  After  all,  the 
tones  were  more  sober  than  drunk.  "I'll  be  getting  a  move 
on,  I  think.  I'll  soon  be  as  bad  as  you,  and  then  I  won't  be 
able  to,  I  expect." 

"Don't  go  yet,  ducky.  I  am  just  beginning  to  like  you." 
It  was  the  voice  of  Cora — the  voice  of  Cora  drunk. 

"I  will,  if  you  don't  mind.  That  second  bottle  has  been 
a  mistake.  And  you  are  not  so  very  amusing,  are  you?" 

"Speak  for  yourself."  And  the  voice  of  Cora  subsided  into 
some  far  and  deep  oblivion. 

There  was  a  silence.  In  the  midst  of  it,  the  young  man 
suddenly  entered  the  room. 

The  visitor,  who  was  tall  and  powerful  and  well  dressed, 
had  the  look  of  a  gentleman.  Perhaps  a  gentleman  run  a 
little  to  seed.  He  was  standing  on  the  threadbare  hearth- 
rug, his  hands  in  his  pockets,  in  a  rather  contemptuous  at- 
346 


THE  SAILOR 

titude,  while  Cora,  unmistakably  drunk,  had  subsided  on  the 
sofa.  Several  bottles  with  glasses  beside  them  were  on  the 
table. 

As  Henry  Harper  entered  the  room,  the  man  looked  at 
him  in  utter  astonishment.  His  surprise  seemed  too  great 
to  allow  him  to  speak. 

"  'Ullo,  Harry,"  muttered  Cora  from  her  sofa.  She  did 
not  attempt  a  more  formal  or  coherent  greeting. 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  how  to  act.  He  was 
wholly  taken  aback  by  the  man's  air  of  cool  surprise;  indeed 
his  attitude  expressed  grim  resentment  for  the  intrusion  of 
a  third  person. 

"Who  is  this  gentleman,  Cora?"  at  last  the  young  man 
was  able  to  ask. 

"Go  to  hell,"  Cora  muttered. 

"Yes,  go  to  hell,"  said  the  man,  apparently  grateful  for 
the  lead. 

Harper  stood  nonplused,  defeated.  But  he  managed  to 
say,  feebly  enough  as  it  seemed  to  himself,  "I  don't  know 
who  you  are,  sir,  but  I'll  thank  you  for  an  explanation." 

The  man  laughed  insolently.    "It's  the  limit,"  he  said. 

At  this  point,  Cora,  by  an  effort  verging  upon  the  super- 
human, sat  up  on  the  sofa. 

"Charlie."  Her  voice  was  a  wheeze.  "I  want  you  to 
set  about  this  beauty — to  oblige  me." 

"My  God,  I've  a  good  mind  to,"  said  Charlie,  who  as  he 
became  more  sober  seemed  to  grow  more  dangerous.  "I 
don't  know  who  you  are,  my  friend,  but  if  you'll  take  advice 
you'll  clear  out." 

As  the  man  spoke,  his  eyes  looked  particularly  ugly.  But 
among  the  things  the  Sailor  had  learned  aboard  the  Mar- 
garet Carey  was  the  art  of  keeping  cool  in  a  crisis. 

"You've  no  right  here  at  all,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "You 
ought  to  know  that." 

23  347 


THE  SAILOR 

"No  right!"  said  Henry  Harper,  in  astonishment. 

"If  you  are  a  wise  man,  you  will  go  away.  I  was  here 
first." 

"What   do   you  mean?" 

"I  came  at  the  invitation  of  this  lady,  Miss  Cora  Dobbs, 
who  is  a  very  old  friend  of  mine." 

The  man  turned  towards  the  sofa.  Cora  nodded.  But 
she  was  now  bordering  on  a  state  of  coma. 

"Who  are  you,  sir?"  Harper  tried  hard  to  keep  his 
temper  in  spite  of  the  man's  calculated  insolence.  "Are  you 
a  relation  of  hers?" 

"A  relation!"  The  man  was  taken  aback.  "We  are 
both  here  for  the  same  object,  I  presume." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  but  this  is  my  flat  and  I'll 
be  very  thankful  if  you'll  quit." 

"Your  flat!"  A  light  seemed  to  dawn.  The  man  turned 
to  Cora:  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  I  thought  you  were 
on  your  own,  as  you  w*ere  before  I  went  to  Canada." 

To  the  man's  clear  annoyance,  Cora  had  now  reached  a 
phase  which  forbade  her  to  answer  this  question.  He  then 
addressed  Henry  Harper  with  a  sudden  change  of  voice. 

"She's  not  played  the  game,"  he  said,  half  apologetically. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that.  I  don't  under- 
stand you." 

The  man  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  He  then  looked 
at  Cora,  who  was  half  lying  upon  the  sofa,  mute,  fuddled, 
and  indifferent. 

"Come  outside,"  said  the  man,  in  a  lower  tone,  "and  I'll 
explain." 

Feeling  completely  bewildered,  Harper  accompanied  him 
into  the  passage. 

"I  apologize,"  said  the  man,  as  soon  as  they  got  there. 
"But  Cora  is  entirely  to  blame.     There's  no  need  to  say 
she  never  told  me  she  was  living  with  you." 
348 


THE  SAILOR 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Henry  Harper. 

The  man  stared  at  him.     He  was  at  a  loss. 

"Of  course,  I've  known  Cora  Dobbs  for  years."  He 
lowered  his  voice.  "But  I've  been  away  in  Canada.  Before 
I  went,  I  used  to  come  here  pretty  regularly." 

As  the  man  spoke,  light  came  to  Henry  Harper.  All  at 
once,  a  chill  ran  in  his  veins. 

"But  ...  but  she's  .  .  .  she's  my  wife,"  he  gasped, 
leaning  heavily  against  the  wall  of  the  passage. 

"She's  your  what!"  the  man  almost  shouted. 

"She's  my  wife." 

Again  the  man  stared  at  him,  but  now  with  a  look  of 
consternation  and  pity. 

"You  mean  to  say  you  didn't  know?" 

The  young  man,  still  leaning  against  the  wall,  was  unable 
to  speak.  A  glance  at  the  ashen  face  convinced  the  older 
man  that  there  was  no  need  to  repeat  the  question. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,  and  I  can  only  apologize,"  he  said, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  and  in  a  tone  of  good  feeling.  He 
then  took  his  hat  and  coat  from  the  peg,  and  suddenly  darted 
out  of  the  flat.  The  door  closed  after  him  with  a  bang. 

IV 

THE  Sailor  continued  to  lean  against  the  wall.     An 
abyss  had  opened.     The  look  on  the  face  of  Mr. 
Rudge,  his  late  master,  and  the  strange  words  he 
had  used  were  returning  upon  him  with  awful  force. 

With  this  discovery  came  surprise,  bewilderment,  self- 
disgust.  It  hardly  seemed  possible  that  a  man  in  his  senses 
could  be  so  blind,  so  ignorant,  so  gullible.  Where  had  been 
his  wits,  that  he  should  have  allowed  the  creature  at  the 
other  side  of  the  passage  wall,  and  her  associates,  to  dupe 
him  so  completely  ? 

349 


THE  SAILOR 

A?  the  feeling  of  amazement  at  his  own  folly  deepened, 
a  gust  of  fury  swept  through  him  like  a  storm.  An  over- 
mastering desire  came  upon  him  to  enter  that  room,  to  deal 
once  and  for  all  with  this  bird  of  prey.  Let  the  world  be 
rid  of  a  foul  thing.  Let  his  be  the  hand  to  efface  it  in  its 
infamy. 

He  would  go  in  at  once  and  make  an  end  of  her.  A  surge 
of  inherited  forces,  a  flood  of  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things 
were  whirling  him  like  a  piece  of  driftwood  into  the  mael- 
strom. He  was  in  the  grip  of  a  terrible  powTer  ...  a  power 
beyond  his  control.  It  was  not  merely  that  she  had  en- 
trapped him,  or  that  he  had  been  incredibly  blind  to  the 
drab  and  sordid  world  in  which  she  lived;  in  the  light  of 
a  widening  knowledge,  the  fact  which  now  drove  him  to 
frenzy  was  that  a  creature  so  common  and  unclean  should 
have  found  it  so  easy  to  make  him  her  victim. 

He  did  not  return  to  the  room  at  once.  There  were 
other  forces,  it  seemed,  vibrating  in  the  air  around  him. 
There  came  a  sudden  reminder  from  the  talisman  that  he 
bore  continually  in  the  right-hand  corner  of  his  brain.  He 
heard  a  voice. 

"Henry  Harper,  is  she  worth  it?  Remember,  if  you 
destroy  her,  you  destroy  yourself  utterly,  body  and  soul." 

The  words  sank  into  him.  The  issue  was  joined,  and 
there  came  the  shock  of  battle.  A  will  half  wrenched 
asunder  seemed  about  to  be  overthrown.  The  desire  to 
enter  the  room  was  overmastering;  a  sense  of  duty  was  re- 
inforced by  the  passion  of  revenge.  There  was  madness 
in  the  thought  that  he  was  the  dupe  of  a  common  woman 
of  the  streets. 

Shaken  with  a  fury  that  was  awful,  he  still  leaned  against 
the  wall  of  the  passage.     The  voice  of  the  genie  was  no 
longer  heard.    The  talisman  shone  no  more.    The  old,  un- 
happy, far-off  things  had  overwhelmed  them. 
350 


THE  SAILOR 

"Kill  her,  kill  her,"  they  whispered  savagely.  "It  is  the 
only  thing  to  do." 

He  was  half  down  already.  The  forces  of  destiny  were 
crushing  out  his  life. 

"Kill  her.  Kill  her."  The  very  walls  were  breathing 
commands  in  his  ears.  "It  is  a  duty  to  others  to  avenge 
yourself." 

There  was  subtlety  in  the  demand.  But  this  was  a  strong, 
not  a  subtle  nature.  It  did  not  practice  self-deception 
lightly.  Aladdin's  lamp  was  quick  to  reveal  the  sophist; 
moreover,  it  had  its  own  answer  ready.  Suddenly  it 
flashed  before  the  mind  of  Henry  Harper  the  elemental 
figure  of  the  man  James  Thorneycroft  simply  relating  his 
story.  By  a  curious  trick  of  the  brain,  the  words  of  the 
condemned  man  were  again  in  his  ears. 

"You  can  take  it  from  me  that  there  is  a  God." 

He  hardly  knew  what  those  words  meant  even  as  he 
heard  them  now.  But  he  knew  they  had  a  significance  be- 
yond any  which  had  previously  touched  his  life.  Then  a 
miracle  happened.  The  powers  which  had  him  in  their 
grip  began  to  relax.  It  was  as  if  his  whole  being  was 
translated.  He  was  again  his  own  man.  Broken  and 
shattered  he  was  able  to  stagger  to  his  own  room  and  light 
the  gas. 

The  battle  was  not  decided  yet.  But  a  new  power  had 
come  to  him.  Therefore  Henry  Harper's  first  act  was  to 
do  that  which  he  had  never  done  before  in  his  life.  He 
kneeled  by  the  side  of  his  bed  and  prayed. 

Presently  he  rose,  and  went  out  again  into  the  little  lobby, 
past  the  half  open  door  through  which  could  be  heard  a 
succession  of  drunken  snores.  He  snatched  his  coat  and  hat 
from  the  peg  and  went  hurriedly  down  into  the  street. 

It  was  one  o'clock.  The  Avenue  and  its  environs  were 
almost  deserted,  save  for  an  occasional  policeman  and  a  few 
351 


THE  SAILOR 

returning  revelers.  He  had  no  idea  as  to  the  way  he  should 
go.  His  one  desire  was  to  get  as  far  as  he  could  from 
King  John's  Mansions  in  the  shortest  possible  time. 

Walking  about  the  streets  of  the  city  hour  after  hour,  he 
could  not  measure  the  abyss  which  had  engulfed  him.  He 
was  completely  cast  away,  he  had  lost  track  of  himself,  he 
didn't  know  where  he  was,  he  had  no  chart  by  which  to  go. 

Ceaseless  wandering  through  remote  and  unknown  places 
brought  the  dawn  at  last,  and  then  he  found  that  the  spot 
he  had  reached  was  Camberwell  Green.  Overcome  with 
fatigue,  he  sat  on  a  public  seat  near  a  tram  terminus  for  a 
little  while.  Then  he  tried  to  shape  his  thoughts,  but  the 
mind  refused  to  act. 


THE  longer  he  sat  the  more  confused  he  became.    At 
last  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  best  thing  he  could 
do  was  to  seek  the  advice  of  Edward  Ambrose.     In- 
deed, in  his  present  state  that  seemed  the  only  course  to 
take.     Almost  mechanically,  he  began  to  make  his  way  in 
the  direction  of  Bury  Street,  St.  James'. 

He  had  a  long  way  to  go,  and  the  road  was  obscure, 
but  as  there  was  not  the  least  need  for  hurry,  he  followed 
the  tram  lines  as  far  as  the  Embankment.  By  the  time 
he  had  reached  Whitehall,  it  was  about  eight  o'clock.  Less 
than  half  an  hour  afterwards  he  had  entered  Bury  Street, 
and  was  back  in  that  house  which  a  few  short  hours  ago 
had  given  him  his  first  glimpse  of  paradise. 

"Why,  Henry!"  His  friend  gave  a  cry  of  surprise.  And 
then  to  cover  it  he  said :  "You  are  just  in  time  for  break- 
fast. Another  knife  and  fork,  Portman.  Take  off  your 
overcoat." 

The  young  man  had  no  wish  to  do  so.     He  remembered 
352 


THE  SAILOR 

that  his  evening  clothes  were  under  it.  Nor  had  he  any 
desire  for  breakfast. 

As  soon  as  the  servant  had  retired,  Edward  Ambrose 
compelled  him  firmly  but  kindly  to  eat. 

Ambrose  had  noted  already  that  the  Sailor  was  in  a 
decidedly  overwrought  state.  The  ashen  face,  the  wild  eyes, 
the  disheveled  appearance  was  not  pleasant  to  see. 

"Tell  me  what  has  happened." 

"Before  I  do  that,"  said  the  young  man,  in  a  voice  un- 
like his  own,  "I  want  you  to  consider  this  a  secret  be- 
tween us." 

"Yes  ...  of  course." 

"To  begin  at  the  beginning  of  a  rotten  story."  There  was 
a  queer  break  in  the  voice.  "You  didn't  know  that  I  was 
married,  did  you?" 

"No,"  said  Ambrose,  impassively. 

"I  dare  say  I  ought  to  have  told  you.  Several  times  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  would.  I  am  very  sorry  now 
I  didn't." 

"You  were  under  no  obligation  to  do  so." 

"There  wouldn't  be  so  much  to  tell  you  now  if  I  had," 
said  the  Sailor,  with  horror  in  his  eyes.  He  then  told  his 
story  at  length,  with  detail  and  with  difficulty,  but  conceal- 
ing nothing. 

Edward  Ambrose  was  much  affected.  He  somehow  felt, 
as  a  generous  mind  was  likely  to  feel  in  such  a  case,  that  it 
should  have  been  his  part  to  shield  this  lamb  from  the 
wolves.  Yet  he  knew  that  blame  did  not  lie  at  his  door. 

Still,  he  was  deeply  grieved.  He  accepted  the  story  with- 
out question  as  it  was  told  him.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
that  all  the  essential  facts  were  exactly  as  they  had  been 
related.  Harper,  in  his  curious  ignorance  of  the  world,  had 
fallen  into  a  trap. 

The  young  man  ended  the  story  with  a  pathetic  appeal 
353 


THE  SAILOR 

for  advice.  He  made  it  clear  that  he  could  never  go  back  to 
this  woman ;  he  dared  not  even  venture  to  see  her  again  lest 
he  do  her  violence.  He  must  get  free  of  her  at  all  costs. 
Could  his  friend  tell  him  how  such  a  thing  must  be  man- 
aged? 

"One  feels  it  ought  not  to  be  very  difficult  in  the  circum- 
stances," said  Edward  Ambrose,  "if  we  go  the  right  way 
to  work.  But  the  first  thing  is  to  consult  a  lawyer." 

Accordingly,  before  he  had  finished  a  greatly  interrupted 
meal,  Ambrose  went  to  the  telephone  and  arranged  to 
see  his  own  solicitor  as  soon  as  that  gentleman  should 
arrive  at  his  office  in  Spring  Gardens.  When  he  returned 
to  the  dining-room,  he  found  Henry  Harper  striding 
up  and  down  it.  A  sort  of  determined  rage  had  taken 
possession  of  him.  The  hereditary  forces  that  had  so 
nearly  overthrown  him  a  few  hours  before  had  returned 
upon  him. 

"I'll  never  be  so  near  murder  as  I  was  between  twelve 
and  one  last  night,"  he  said,  huskily,  with  a  clenched  and 
deadly  look. 

"She  wouldn't  have  been  worth  it,"  said  Edward  Am- 
brose. He  then  turned  abruptly  from  the  subject.  "You 
will  want  rooms,  won't  you — somewhere  to  go?"  He  had 
a  fund  of  very  practical  kindness.  "And  you'll  want  clothes. 
And  your  papers  and  books.  But  I  think  we  had  better 
send  one  of  Mortimer's  clerks  to  collect  those.  As  for 
rooms,  perhaps  Portman  may  know  of  some." 

Upon  due  interrogation,  Portman,  it  seemed,  knew  of 
some  rooms  that  might  be  vacant.  Thereupon  he  was  sent 
on  a  diplomatic  mission;  the  scale  of  charges  must  be 
strictly  moderate.  He  must  not  show  his  nose,  which  prided 
itself  on  a  resemblance  to  that  of  a  certain  very  eminent 
statesman,  in  Bury  Street  again  until  his  errand  had  been 
carried  out  successfully. 

354 


THE  SAILOR 

Presently,  the  solicitors,  Messrs.  Mortimer,  Groves, 
Pearce,  Son  and  Mortimer,  rang  up  to  say  that  Mr.  Daniel 
Mortimer  had  arrived  at  the  office,  and  would  be  glad  to 
see  Mr.  Ambrose.  Accordingly,  Henry  Harper  went  at 
once  with  his  friend  in  a  taxi  to  Spring  Gardens. 

Mr.  Daniel  Mortimer  was  the  kind  of  man  who  would 
have  greatly  impressed  the  Sailor  on  an  ord'nary  occasion. 
Mr.  Mortimer  was  by  nature  very  impressive.  He  could 
not  help  being  so.  Even  when  he  was  quite  alone  and  merely 
warming  his  hands  at  the  fire,  he  was  impressive.  In  fact, 
it  was  a  quality  which  was  worth  several  thousands  a  year 
to  him. 

Mr.  Mortimer  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  very  sound 
lawyer.  He  certainly  looked  a  very  sound  lawyer.  His 
geniality  was  most  engaging,  and  there  was  a  shrewd  and 
knowledgeable  personality  beneath. 

He  greeted  Mr.  Ambrose  less  as  a  client  than  as  a  rather 
irresponsible  nephew  received  by  a  preternaturally  wise  yet 
jovial  uncle.  Ambrose  had  been  his  fag  at  school. 

"Well,  Edward,  what  can  we  do  for  you?"  was  the 
pontifical  greeting. 

"Allow  me  to  introduce  Mr.  Harper — Mr.  Mortimer — 
and  you  can  prepare  to  speak  out  of  the  depths  of  your  wis- 
dom after  the  ancient  manner." 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Mortimer,  with  the  air  of  one 
very  well  able  to  do  so.  "Won't  you  sit  down?"  He  placed 
two  chairs  with  innate  and  almost  oriental  magnificence. 
"We  aie  now  at  your  service."  It  was  less  a  trick  of  speech 
than  sheer  pressure  of  human  character  which  caused  Mr. 
Mortimer  always  to  refer  to  himself  in  die  plural. 

"I  think  you  had  better  tell  the  story,  Henry,"  said 
Edward  Ambrose.  "Tell  it  to  Mortimer  exactly  as  you 
have  told  it  to  me." 

That  gentleman  assumed  his  armchair  of  state,  and  for 
355 


THE  SAILOR 

the  second  time  that  morning  Henry  Harper  told  his  strange 
story. 

"And  you  never  guessed!"  was  the  solicitor's  brief  com- 
ment when  it  had  been  told. 

"I  can't  think  why  I  didn't,"  said  the  young  man. 

Mr.  Mortimer  frowned  tremendously.  He  then  took  up  a 
pencil  and  began  with  great  freedom  of  style  to  draw  on 
his  blotting  pad  a  portrait  of  no  one  in  particular. 

"Edward,"  he  said,  after  he  had  continued  to  do  this 
for  several  minutes,  "I  am  afraid  this  is  a  difficult  business." 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  said  Edward  Ambrose  gravely.  "And 
we  have  come  to  a  very  wise  man  to  set  it  right  for  us.  It 
oughtn't  to  be  beyond  your  powers,  ought  it,  having  regard 
to  the  acknowledged  character  of  the  lady?" 

"I  fear,"  said  Mr.  Mortimer,  "the  character  of  the  lady 
is  too  much  acknowledged  if  the  question  of  a  divorce  is 
running  in  5:our  mind." 

"Well,  of  course  it  is,"  said  Edward  Ambrose,  with  an 
air  of  deep  disappointment  as  he  looked  at  Henry  Harper. 

"I'll  have  a  divorce  if  I  can  possibly  get  one,"  said  the 
young  man.  "And  I  don't  care  what  trouble  I  take  or  whaf 
it  costs." 

Mr.  Mortimer  continued  to  draw  very  spirited  pictures  on 
his  blotting  pad. 

"Don't  you  advise  it?"  asked  Edwrard  Ambrose. 

"Yes,  I  do,  if  we  can  get  one.  But  in  the  special  circum- 
stances, it  is  going  to  prove  uncommonly  difficult,  in  fact, 
one  might  say  impossible." 

"You  don't  mean  that,  sir,"  said   Henry   Harper. 

"It  is  only  my  opinion."  Mr.  Mortimer  spoke  as  if  there 
could  be  no  other.  "But  let  me  be  quite  candid,  as  I  am  sure 
you  want  me  to  be.  I  am  perfectly  certain  you  will  never 
get  a  British  jury  to  believe  the  first  part  of  your  story." 

"But  you  believe  it?"  said  Henry  Harper,  with  wild  eyes. 
356 


THE  SAILOR 

"I  most  certainly  believe  it,  I  believe  every  word  you  tell, 
me.  But  we  have  to  deal  with  a  British  jury,  and  in  any 
question  affecting  what  it  calls  'morality,'  a  British  jury  is  a 
very  difficult  proposition.  At  least,  that's  my  experience." 

Both  Henry  Harper  and  his  friend  were  so  dismayed  by 
the  force  of  Mr.  Mortimer's  conviction,  that  at  first  they 
did  not  say  anything.  Soon,  however,  Edward  Ambrose, 
who  was  looking  particularly  unhappy,  remarked :  "Then 
you  don't  advise  him  to  fight  it?" 

"I  don't.  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  don't.  There  is  not  a 
dog's  chance  without  very  strong  direction  from  the  Bench, 
and  there  is  little  hope  of  that  in  a  case  of  this  kind.  His 
Majesty's  judges  are  quite  as  bad  as  a  British  jury  when 
they  are  out  on  the  'morality'  racket." 

"The  good  bourgeois,  in  fact,  without  a  spark  of  im- 
agination ?" 

"Quite  so.  Of  course,  we  might  try,  but  really  one  doesn't 
advise  it.  There  would  be  unwarrantable  expense,  and 
even  if  we  were  lucky  enough  to  get  a  verdict,  it  would  still 
be  a  very  serious  matter  for  a  young  and  rising  man.  At 
least,  that's  my  view." 

"I  don't  doubt  you  are  right,"  said  Edward  Ambrose, 
with  a  groan  of  sheer  vexation. 

"You  mean,  sir,  I  can't  get  free  of  her?"  said  the  Sailor. 

"Only  with  great  difficulty,  I  am  afraid.  And  in  any 
event,  the  issue  is  uncertain.  As  I  understand,  you  are  in  a 
position  to  prove  very  little.  Conjecture  will  not  satisfy  a 
jury,  and  even  that  must  be  based  on  a  set  of  circumstances 
that  will  not  help  your  case." 

"Well,  what  do  you  advise?"   asked   Edward  Ambrose. 

"I  should  be  inclined  to  let  matters  take  their  course  for 
the  present.  As  she  appears  to  be  drinking  heavily,  it  is 
not  unreasonable  to  hope  that  in  time  things  may  adjust 
themselves  automatically." 

357 


THE  SAILOR 

"But  in  the  meantime  how  can  she  be  kept  from  making 
herself  objectionable?" 

"If  you  care  to  leave  that  to  us,  I  think  a  way  may  be 
found." 

"By  paying  her  a  sum  weekly?"  suggested  Edward  Am- 
brose. "And  by  threatening  to  withdraw  it  if  she  doesn't 
behave  herself?" 

"I  don't  think  it  will  be  necessary  to  do  that." 

However,  the  young  man  felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  keep 
her  from  the  gutter,  which  seemed  to  be  her  present  desti- 
nation. 

"That  is  for  you  to  consider,"  said  Mr.  Mortimer.  "In 
my  judgment,  you  are  under  no  obligation  to  provide  for 
her,  but  if  on  grounds  of  humanity  you  wish  to  do  so,  let 
no  one  dissuade  you." 

Edward  Ambrose  agreed. 

The  upshot  of  a  painful  matter  was  that  it  was  left  in 
Mr.  Mortimer's  hands.  He  undertook  to  deal  in  such  a 
way  with  Mrs.  Henry  Harper  that  there  should  be  no  fear 
of  molestation  from  her.  Also,  he  would  have  inquiries 
made  into  her  past  history  and  her  present  mode  of  life; 
and  if  a  subsequent  reconsideration  of  the  case  should  make 
a  final  appeal  to  the  law  seem  in  any  wise  expedient,  then 
would  be  the  time  to  invoke  it.  In  the  meantime  a  sum 
would  be  paid  to  her  weekly.  Mr.  Mortimer  undertook  to 
send  a  clerk  to  the  flat  in  order  to  collect  Henry  Harper's 
papers  and  other  belongings. 

It  was  an  unhappy  state  of  affairs,  but  the  young  man 
realized  that  for  the  present  it  would  be  the  part  of  wisdom 
to  leave  the  matter  in  the  prudent  hands  of  Mr.  Mortimer. 


358 


THE  SAILOR 


VI 


THE  Sailor  found  sanctuary  at  Bury  Street  until  late 
in  the  afternoon.  By  that  time  a  member  of  Mr. 
Mortimer's  staff  had  retrieved  his  chattels  from 
King  John's  Mansions;  also  the  admirable  Portman  had 
returned  from  his  quest  "for  lodgings,  clean  and  decent,  for 
a  single  man."  Moreover,  success  had  crowned  it,  as  Ed- 
ward Ambrose  had  been  confident  that  it  would. 

Portman,  it  appeared,  had  found  very  nice  rooms  for  a 
single  gentleman  in  Brinkworth  Street,  Chelsea.  They  were 
kept  by  a  friend  of  his  who  had  been  butler  in  the  service 
of  the 'Honorable  Lady  Price,  relict  of  the  late  Sir  O'Gor- 
man  Price,  K.C.M.G.,  a  former  governor  of  the  Bower- 
man  Islands,  who  had  given  him  an  excellent  character. 
It  was  also  fortified  by  the  fact  that  he  had  married  the 
cook  lately  in  the  service  of  that  lady.  Portman  was  sure 
that  Mr.  Harper  would  find  everything  very  comfortable. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Henry  Harper  was  on  his  way  to 
Brinkworth  Street  with  his  few  belongings.  Before  taking 
leave  of  Portman,  he  presented  him  with  half  a  sovereign. 
This  was  a  princely  emolument  in  the  eyes  of  the  Sailor, 
but  he  felt  that  nothing  less  could  meet  the  case. 

On  his  arrival  at  Brinkworth  Street,  the  young  man  knew 
at  once  that  he  would  be  in  good  hands.  The  air  of  re- 
spectability which  hovered  round  his  rooms  was  a  little  por- 
tentous, perhaps,  but  at  least  it  was  in  welcome  and  vivid 
contrast  to  the  cheap  and  dismal  tawdriness  of  King  John's 
Mansions.  Mr.  Emerson  Paley,  the  proprietor  of  No.  14, 
and  Mrs.  Paley  also,  had  something  of  Portman's  impres- 
siveness.  It  was  clear  that  they  had  their  own  standard  of 
taste  and  conduct.  Moreover,  Henry  Harper  welcomed  it. 
To  him  it  meant  a  fixing  of  social  values.  The  atmosphere 
359 


THE  SAILOR 

of  No.  14,  Brinkworth  Street,  was  wholly  different  from  that 
which  had  enveloped  any  home  he  had  ever  known  before. 

The  Sailor  found  a  stimulus  in  these  new  surroundings. 
Brinkworth  Street,  its  outlook  and  its  ideals,  was  a  cosmos 
he  had  yet  to  traverse  and  explore.  Mr.  Paley  was  in  his 
own  way  surprisingly  a  gentleman,  as  Mrs.  Paley  in  hers 
was  surprisingly  a  lady;  not,  of  course,  in  the  way  that 
Edward  Ambrose  and  his  new  friend,  Mary  Pridmore,  were, 
but  still  they  undoubtedly  stood  for  something — a  curious, 
indefinable  something  wholly  beyond  the  menage  he  had 
lately  left,  with  its  air  of  make-believe  refinement  which 
was  not  refinement  at  all. 

Mr.  Paley  and  also  Mrs.  Paley  treated  him  with  great 
consideration.  And  it  was  no  second-hand  or  spurious  emo- 
tion. It  seemed  to  be  their  nature  to  pay  respect,  they 
seemed  to  have  a  craving  to  pay  it,  just  as  a  person  there  was 
no  need  to  name  and  that  person's  friends  had  a  craving 
to  be  always  what  they  called  "pulling  your  leg."  Not 
only  was  Mr.  Harper  treated  with  deference,  but  solid 
comfort,  well  cooked  food  and  punctual  attention  were 
lavished  upon  him,  so  that  for  his  own  part  he  was  bound 
to  honor  the  source  whence  these  blessings  sprang.  The 
august  shade  of  the  relict  of  Sir  O'Gorman  Price,  K.C. 
M.G.,  might  have  been  a  little  too  much  in  evidence  now 
and  again  for  the  plain  and  unvarnished  taste  of  a  sailor, 
but  an  ever  deepening  perception  showed  him  that  the  very 
things  he  was  inclined  to  despise  and  to  laugh  at — as  most 
of  the  people  with  whom  his  life  had  been  passed  would 
undoubtedly  have  done — were  of  real  importance  if  you 
were  able  to  look  at  them  from  the  right  point  of  view. 

From  the  moment  he  invaded  its  rather  oppressively  re- 
spectable precincts,  No.  14,  Brinkworth  Street,  by  some 
alchemy  of  the  spirit  of  place,  began  to  work  sensibly  upon 
the  Sailor.  A  rapidly  expanding  life  had  been  in  peril  of 
36o 


THE  SAILOR 

being  torn  asunder,  but  Providence,  which  owed  him  so 
much,  had  found  him  a  harbor  of  refuge. 

From  the  very  first  evening  in  his  new  quarters  recon- 
struction began.  An  air  of  ordered  calm  seemed  to  pervade 
the  carefully  laundered  pillow  as  he  laid  his  head  on  it  that 
night.  He  was  miserably  weary,  for  one  thing,  but  his  physi- 
cal state  was  not  alone  the  cause  of  his  sleeping  in  a  way 
that  had  not  been  possible  at  No.  106,  King  John's  Man- 
sions, in  all  the  months  he  had  known  it.  Somehow,  that 
sleep  in  those  clean  sheets,  in  that  well-aired  room,  seemed 
to  be  the  prelude  to  a  new  phase  of  being. 

It  was  Sunday  morning  when  the  Sailor  awoke.  The 
first  thing  he  knew  was  that  the  noiseless  Mr.  Paley  was 
in  the  room,  that  he  had  placed  a  tiny  tray  on  a  small  table 
at  the  side  of  his  bed,  that  he  had  said,  in  his  discreet  voice, 
"Eight  o'clock,  sir,"  and  that  he  was  now  in  the  act  of 
drawing  up  the  blinds  and  letting  in  the  light  of  February. 

"Do  you  desire  a  warm  bath  or  a  cold,  sir?" 

It  might  have  been  Portman  himself  who  was  asking  that 
considered  question. 

"Cold,  please,"  said  the  Sailor,  rubbing  his  eyes  with 
a  feeling  of  pleasure. 

Mr.  Paley  spread  a  mat  and  then  produced  from  a  chastely 
curtained  recess  a  large,  yellow-painted  bath.  Shortly 
afterwards,  he  evolved  two  cans  of  water  from  outside  the 
bedroom  door. 

"Your  bath  is  quite  ready,  sir." 

"Thank  you.    Much  obliged." 

The  Sailor  sprang  out  of  bed.  Yes,  it  was  another  new 
world  he  had  entered. 

Half  an  hour  later,  he  had  descended  to  the  dining-room, 

feeling  perhaps  a  stronger  and  more  composed  man  than  he 

had  ever  been  in  his  life.     A  well  cooked  rasher  and  two 

poached  eggs  and  crisp  toast  and  butter  and  the  best  Oxford 

36l 


THE  SAILOR 

marmalade  awaited  him.  He  sat  near  the  pleasant  fire,  with 
his  back  to  the  enlarged  photograph  of  the  late  Sir  O'Gor- 
man  Price,  K.C.M.G.,  the  last  portrait  taken  by  Messrs. 
Barrett  and  Filmer,  of  Regent  Street,  and  at  Brighton,  be- 
fore the  country  and  the  empire  endured  its  irreparable  loss. 
He  ate  steadily  for  twenty  minutes  by  the  marble  and  ormulu 
clock  in  the  center  of  the  chimney  piece,  presented  by  the 
Honorable  Lady  Price  (a  daughter  of  Lord  Vesle  and 
Voile)  in  recognition  of  the  faithful  and  valued  service  of 
Miss  Martha  Handcock,  on  the  occasion  of  her  marriage 
with  Mr.  Emerson  Paley.  He  also  contrived  to  hold  a 
brief  conversation  with  Mr.  Emerson  Paley  in  regard  to 
the  weather.  In  a  word,  the  Sailor's  first  breakfast  in 
Brinkworth  Street  was  a  memorable  affair. 

After  his  meal,  beginning  to  feel  more  and  more  his  own 
man,  and  with  this  new  world  of  order,  of  respect  for  es- 
tablished things,  unfolding  itself  around  him,  he  proceeded 
to  unpack  the  books  which  the  surprisingly  efficient  member 
of  Messrs.  Mortimer's  staff  had  collected  in  three  large 
parcels.  He  felt  a  little  thrill  of  delight  as  he  laid  out  care- 
fully each  beloved  volume  on  the  well  polished  writing  table 
with  its  green  baize  top,  and  then  arranged  them  with  pre- 
cision and  delicacy  on  a  row  of  empty  shelves  that  had  been 
freshly  papered  to  receive  them. 

When  this  had  been  done  and  the  litter  had  been  care- 
fully removed,  the  Sailor  chose  the  volume  which  had  had 
the  most  to  say  to  him  of  late.  In  fact,  it  was  the  book 
which  up  till  now  had  meant  more  to  him  than  any  other. 
Then  he  sat  luxuriously  before  the  fire,  bravely  determined 
to  forget  the  world  he  had  left  and  to  envisage  the  ne\v 
one  opening  around  him. 

Two  hours  passed,  whose  golden  flight  it  was  not  for  him 
to  heed,  when  all  at  once  he  was  brought  to  earth. 

"Mr.  Ambrose,"  announced  Mr.  Paley. 
362 


THE  SAILOR 

"I  thought  I'd  like  to  see  if  you  had  moved  in  in  good 
shape,"  said  his  friend,  as  he  entered  briskly  and  cheer- 
fully. "Sorry  I  couldn't  come  with  you  last  night,  but  I 
should  have  been  hopelessly  late  for  a  very  dull  dinner  party, 
which  might  have  made  it  longer  for  others.  What  are  you 
reading?  Milton?" 

"It  simply  takes  my  head  off,"  said  the  Sailor.  "I  almost 
want  to  shout  and  sing.  It's  another  new  world  to  me." 

"We  can  all  envy  any  man  who  enters  it,"  said  Edward 
Ambrose,  with  his  deep  laugh. 

VII 

THREE  days  later,  at  the  punctual  hour  of  half  past 
four  in  the  afternoon,  Mr.  Henry  Harper  was  at 
the  threshold  of  No.  50,  Queen  Street,   Mayfair. 
He  had  been  at  pains  to  array  himself  as  well  as  a  limited 
wardrobe  allowed,  which  meant  that  neatness  had  been  set 
above  fashion.    In  spite  of  all  he  had  been  through  since  his 
glimpse  of  paradise,  the  coming  of  this  present  hour  had 
been  a  beacon  in  his  mind.     And  now  as  he  stood  on  the 
doorstep  of  No.  50,  waiting  for  his  echoing  summons  to  be 
heeded,  he  felt  so  nervous  that  he  could  hardly  breathe. 

The  magic  portals  of  the  Fairy  Princess  were  drawn  back 
by  another  Mr.  Portman,  a  bland  and  spreading  gentleman 
who  bore  himself  with  the  same  authentic  air  of  chaste 
magnificence.  He  took  charge  of  Mr.  Harper's  coat  and  hat 
and  then  took  charge  of  Mr.  Harper  himself  as  though  he 
had  clearly  expected  him.  As  the  j'oung  man  followed  him 
upstairs  to  the  drawing-room  his  heart  beat  with  a  violence 
wholly  absurd. 

Mary  came  forward  to  greet  him  as  soon  as  he  appeared 
in  the  room,  her  eyes  alight,  her  hand  outstretched.     It  was 
a  reception  of  pure  unstudied  friendship. 
24  363 


THE  SAILOR 

There  was  only  one  other  person  in  the  large  room  just 
then,  a  lady  of  quiet,  slightly  formidable  dignity,  who  was 
enthroned  before  a  massive  silver  tea  service  on  a  massive 
silver  tray. 

"Mr.  Harper — my  mother,"  said  Mary. 

The  young  man  took  the  offered  hand  timidly.  The  lady 
of  the  silver  tea  service,  kindly  and  smiling  though  she  was, 
had  none  of  the  impulsive  accessibility  of  her  daughter.  The 
Sailor  knew  in  a  moment  that  she  belonged  to  another  order 
of  things  altogether. 

She  was  large  and  handsome,  sixty,  perhaps,  and  her 
finely  modeled  face  was  framed  in  an  aureole  of  extremely 
correct  white  hair.  Indeed,  in  spite  of  her  smile  and  an 
air  of  genuine  kindness,  correctness  seemed  to  be  her  pre- 
dominant feature.  Everything  about  her  was  so  ordered,  so 
exactly  right,  that  she  had  the  rather  formal  unimaginative 
look  to  which  the  whole  race  of  royalties  is  doomed  by  the 
walls  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  Arts. 

It  is  not  certain  that  Lady  Pridmore  felt  this  to  be  a 
hardship.  Mary  roundly  declared  that  nothing  would  have 
induced  her  mother  to  part  with  it.  She  had  often  been 
mistaken  for  this  or  that  personage,  and  although  much 
teased  on  the  subject  by  her  daughters,  it  was  an  open  secret 
that  such  resemblances  were  precious  in  her  sight. 

To  this  lady's  "How  do  you  do?"  Mr.  Harper  responded 
with  incoherency.  But  the  watchful  Mary,  who  knew  "the 
effect  that  mother  had  on  some  people,"  promptly  came  to 
the  young  man's  aid  and  helped  him  out  with  great  gallantry 
and  success. 

With  the  laugh  peculiarly  hers,  Mary  fixed  the  sailorman 
in  a  chair  at  a  strategic  distance  from  her  mother,  gave 
him  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  liberal  piece  of  cake,  also  thought- 
fully provided  him  with  a  plate  and  a  small  table  to  put 
it  on,  because  this  creature  of  swift  intuitions  somehow 
364 


THE  SAILOR 

felt  that  he  had  not  quite  got  his  drawing-room  legs  at 
present. 

"You  have  a  whole  volume  of  questions  to  answer  pres- 
ently, Mr.  Harper,"  said  Mary,  "so  take  plenty  of  nourish- 
ment, please.  One  of  the  pink  is  recommended.  They've 
got  maraschino."  She  took  one  herself  and  bit  it  in  half  with 
a  gusto  that  rather  amazed  the  young  man ;  somehow  he  had 
not  looked  for  it  in  a  real  Hyde  Park  lady. 

"Mmm — I  told  you — mmm — Klondyke."  The  real  Hyde 
Park  lady  was  speaking  with  her  mouth  full.  "Klondyke 
is  the  black  sheep  of  the  family.  My  mother  is  simply  dying 
to  talk  to  you  about  him." 

This  was  not  strictly  true.  Lady  Pridmore  was  not  of  the 
kind  that  simply  dies  to  talk  of  anything  to  anybody.  Be- 
fore she  married  Sir  John,  she  had  been  a  Miss  Colthurst,  of 
Suffolk.  At  the  time  of  her  union  with  that  gentleman,  then 
plain  Mr.  Pridmore,  charge  d'affaires  at  Porocatepetl,  and 
afterwards  Her  Britannic  Majesty's  representative  in  several 
European  capitals,  her  standard  of  conduct  had  been  rigidly 
fixed.  She  had  seen  much  of  life  since,  but  nothing  had 
ever  caused  her  to  modify  it.  She  was  greatly  interested  in 
the  perennial  subject  of  her  eldest  son,  but  to  her  mind,  as 
it  would  have  been  to  the  collective  mind  of  the  Colthursts 
of  Suffolk  from  immemorial  time,  it  was  merely  an  abuse 
of  language  for  Mary  to  state  that  she  was  simply  dying 
to  hear  about  Klondyke.  She  was  always  much  interested, 
nevertheless,  in  the  doings  of  poor  dear  Jack. 

However,  a  disappointment  was  in  store  for  Lady  Prid- 
more. This  rather  strange  looking  young  man  with  the  shy 
and  embarrassed  manner  was  not  so  communicative  on  the 
subject  in  conversation  with  her  as  he  had  been  when 
Mary  had  met  him  at  dinner.  He  had  really  very  little 
to  tell  her.  For  one  thing,  it  was  by  no  means  so  easy 
to  converse  with  her  as  it  had  been  with  the  altogether 
365 


THE  SAILOR 

delightful  daughter  who  knew  exactly  when  and  how  to 
lend  a  hand. 

The  mother  of  Klondyke  had  therefore  to  do  most  of  the 
talking  about  that  unsatisfactory  young  man.  She  certainly 
did  it  very  well.  That  is  to  say,  she  talked  about  him  in  a 
very  even,  precise,  persistent,  Hyde-Park-lady  tone.  And  the 
Sailor,  as  he  sat  listening  with  awe  to  a  conversation  in  which 
he  did  not  feel  in  the  least  able  to  bear  a  part,  could  only 
marvel  that  Klondyke  had  had  such  a  mother  as  Lady 
Pridmore  and  that  Lady  Pridmore  had  had  such  a  son  as 
Klondyke. 

It  had  always  been  Lady  Pridmore's  wish  that  her  eldest 
son  should  enter  his  father's  profession.  In  the  first  place, 
he  would  have  had  Influence  to  help  him,  and  if  there  was 
anything  more  precious  in  the  sight  of  Lady  Pridmore  than 
Influence,  it  would  have  been  very  hard  to  discover  it. 
Again,  he  was  the  offspring  of  two  diplomatic  families;  at 
least,  it  was  recorded  in  Burke,  where  each  family's  record 
was  set  out  at  considerable  length  and  no  doubt  with  rea- 
sonable veracity,  that  diplomacy  was  one  of  the  callings 
which  adorned  two  supremely  honorable  escutcheons. 

In  the  opinion  of  Mary,  also  in  that  of  Silvia,  who  ought 
to  have  been  back  from  Mudie's  by  now,  and  also,  but  in  a 
less  degree,  in  the  opinion  of  Otto — named  after  his  god- 
father, a  certain  Prince  Otto  von  Bismarck — who  generally 
got  home  from  the  Foreign  Office  about  five,  their  mother 
exaggerated  the  importance  of  the  Pridmores  of  Yorkshire 
and  the  Colthursts  of  Suffolk.  No  doubt  they  were  two 
fairly  old  and  respectable  families;  Burke  could  certainly 
show  cause  for  setting  store  by  them;  each  family  ran  to 
two  full  pages,  fairly  bristling  with  peers  and  baronets  and 
Lady  Charlottes  and  Lady  Sophias;  and  yet,  to  their 
mother's  grief,  these  three  heretics,  Mary,  Silvia,  and  Otto, 
generally  known  as  the  Prince,  took  pleasure  in  developing 
366 


THE  SAILOR 

the  theory  that  it  was  mere  Victorianism  for  Burke  or  any- 
one else  to  flaunt  such  a  pride  in  the  Colthursts  and  the 
Pridmores. 

"Because,"  said  Mary,  "it  is  not  as  though  either 
family  has  ever  produced  anybody  at  all  first-rate  in  any- 
thing." 

The  intrusion  of  Burke  reveals  a  certain  attitude  of  mind 
in  Lady  Pridmore.  It  was  really  surprising — three  of  her 
progeny  always  maintained  it,  and  a  fourth  would  undoubt- 
edly have  done  so  had  he  ever  felt  called  upon  to  express  an 
opinion  in  the  matter — that  one  who  had  seen  as  much  of  the 
world  as  their  mother,  who  had  dined  and  supped  and  danced 
and  paid  calls  in  the  most  famous  European  capitals,  who 
had  been  intimate  with  Crowned  Heads,  who  had  been 
whirled  by  them  across  ballrooms,  who  had  the  entree  to 
the  great  world  and  had  cut  a  very  decent  figure  in  it,  ac- 
cording to  the  memoirs  of  the  time,  should  have  such  obso- 
lete ideas  in  regard  to  the  value  of  the  Colthurst  family 
of  Suffolk  and  in  slightly  modified  degree  of  the  Pridmore 
family  of  Yorkshire.  As  Mary  said,  it  was  funny. 

At  present,  however,  Mr.  Henry  Harper  did  not  share 
any  such  view  of  Lady  Pridmore.  She  and  all  that  went 
with  her  seemed  too  important  to  be  contemplated  in  the 
light  of  levity.  She  had  a  dignity  beyond  anything  the 
Sailor  had  known  or  up  till  then  had  conceived  to  be  pos- 
sible. Therefore,  it  made  her  relationship  to  Klondyke 
a  crowning  wonder. 

"I  shall  always  think,  Mr.  Harper,"  said  Lady  Prid- 
more, "that  if  they  had  only  given  Jack  his  Eleven  during  his 
last  term  at  Eton,  it  would  have  made  a  great  difference  in 
his  life.  I  don't  say  he  ought  to  have  played  against  Har- 
row, but  I  certainly  think  they  might  have  played  him  against 
Winchester  for  his  bowling.  Had  they  done  that,  I  am  con- 
vinced it  would  have  steadied  him,  and  then,  no  doubt,  he 
367 


THE  SAILOR 

would  have  settled  down  and  have  followed  in  the  foot- 
steps of  his  father." 

This  was  the  tragedy  of  Lady  Pridmore's  life,  yet  it  said 
much  for  the  callousness  of  youth  that  Mary,  Silvia,  and  the 
Prince  were  unable  to  approach  the  subject  with  reverence. 

The  Sailor  kept  up  his  end  as  well  as  he  could,  but  his 
awe  of  Lady  Pridmore  did  not  grow  less.  Therefore  he 
could  do  himself  no  sort  of  justice.  Mary,  who  had  taken 
him  completely  under  her  wing,  was  always  on  the  watch  to 
render  well-timed  assistance.  She  helped  him  out  of  one  or 
two  tight  places,  and  then  Silvia  came  in,  with  three  books 
in  a  strap. 

She  was  of  a  type  different  from  Mary's,  but  Mr.  Harper 
thought  she  was  very  good  to  look  at.  She  had  the  same  air 
of  directness  that  he  liked  so  much  in  the  elder  sister.  An 
amused  vivacity  made  her  popular  with  most  people,  yet 
behind  it  was  a  cool,  rather  cynical  perception  of  men  and 
things. 

Mary  introduced  Mr.  Harper,  and  Silvia  shook  hands 
with  him  in  her  mother's  manner,  but  with  an  eye  of  merri- 
ment which  made  quite  a  comic  effect. 

"I've  just  come  from  Mudie's,"  she  said,  "where  they 
say  everybody  is  reading  your  book.  It  is  wonderfully  clever 
of  you  to  have  written  it.  Sailors  don't  write  as  a  rule, 
do  they?  Something  better  to  do,  I  suppose." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Henry  Harper.  Some- 
how he  felt  already  that  Silvia  was  disarmingly  easy  to  get  on 
with.  "Myself,  I'd  rather  be  John  Milton  than  the  master 
of  any  ship  that  ever  sailed  the  seas." 

"Yes,  but  that's  because  you  were  a  sailor  before  you  were 
a  writer,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  what  every  writer  that's  worth  his  salt  has  got  to 
be,"  said  the  young  man,  quaintly.     "John  Milton  was  a 
sailor,  too.    A  master  mariner." 
368 


THE  SAILOR 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Silvia.     "I  see  what  you  mean." 

She  had  decided  already  that  she  very  much  liked  this 
strange,  wistful,  rather  fine-drawn  young  man.  He  was 
quite  different  from  any  other  young  man  she  had  ever  met. 
Somehow,  he  was  exactly  like  his  book. 

"It  is  odd  you  should  have  been  on  the  same  ship  as  my 
brother." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Sailor.  "And  yet  it  isn't.  Nothing  is 
really  queer  if  you  come  to  think  about  it.  It  seems  very 
much  more  strange  to  me  that  I  should  be  in  this  beautiful 
room  talking  to  you  ladies,  than  that  I  should  have  been  in 
the  port  watch  with  Klondyke  aboard  the  Margaret  Carey." 

"The  sea  is  more  familiar  to  you  than  London,"  said 
Silvia,  completely  disarmed  by  his  naivete,  as  Mary  had 
been. 

Otto  now  came  in.  His  general  aspect  was  not  unlike 
Klondyke's,  his  air  was  frank  and  manly,  yet  his  bearing  was 
more  considered  than  that  hero's.  All  the  same  he  had  a 
full  share  of  the  family  charm. 

"Otto,"  said  Mary,  "this  is  Mr.  Harper,  who  knows 
Jack." 

"What,  you  know  old  Fly-up-the-Creek !  Heaven  help 
you!" 

Mr.  Harper  had  already  made  the  discovery  that  these 
people  had  a  language  of  their  own,  which  he  could  only 
follow  with  difficulty.  It  was  a  language  which  Madame 
Sadleir  didn't  teach,  a  language  that  Mr.  Ambrose  didn't 
use,  although  he  understood  it  well  enough;  in  fact,  it  was 
a  language  he  had  never  heard  before,  and  he  somehow  felt 
that  Lady  Pridmore  was  rather  pained  by  it. 

"Mr.  Harper,"  said  Mary,  "this  is  our  respectable  brother. 
He  is  true  to  type." 

"For  the  love  of  heaven,  be  quiet!"  said  Otto,  gulping 
Ins  tea. 

369 


THE  SAILOR 

"Here's  your  book  on  Nietzsche,"  said  Silvia.  "Mr. 
Harper,  what  do  you  think  of  Nietzsche?" 

Mr.  Harper  had  never  heard  of  Nietzsche,  and  he  didn't 
hesitate  to  say  so.  Lady  Pridmore  alone,  of  the  four  people 
present,  failed  to  respect  his  frankness.  To  her  mind,  it  was 
inconceivable  that  an  author  by  profession  and  one  reputed 
to  be  successful  should  not  have  heard  of  Nietzsche.  It  was 
almost  as  if  he  had  not  heard  of  Lord  Tennyson. 

Yet  Mary  and  Silvia  and  even  the  Prince  honored  this 
candor.  This  chap  was  a  queer  freak  in  the  eyes  of  the  bud- 
ding diplomatist,  but  he  had  been  told  by  people  who 
knew  about  such  matters  that  all  writing  chaps  were,  if  they 
were  at  all  first  rate.  All  the  same,  he  liked  him.  One  felt 
he  was  straight  and  decent,  in  spite  of  his  outlandishness. 
Somehow  this  quaint  bird  did  not  seem  to  be  following  the 
usual  line  of  country  of  the  soaring  eagles  of  the  moment 
whom  his  sisters  brought  to  the  house  from  time  to  time. 

The  Prince  took  not  unkindly  to  the  sailorman,  who  had 
written  two  very  curious  books  about  the  sea.  They  were 
much  overrated,  in  the  Prince's  opinion.  The  style  was 
uncertain,  and  the  colors  were  laid  on  too  thick  for  any- 
thing, but  people  who  knew  Ted  Ambrose,  for  instance, 
thought  a  good  deal  of  them.  Personally,  the  Prince  be- 
lieved in  style.  Stevenson,  for  example,  wrote  like  an  edu- 
cated man.  This  man's  writing  in  its  crude  force  had  some- 
how the  air  of  the  lower  deck.  Ambrose  said  there  was 
greatness  in  it,  all  the  same.  Personally,  the  Prince  pre- 
ferred polished  mediocrity,  and  was  not  ashamed  of  the  fact, 
not  that  one  could  call  a  chap  like  Stevenson  mediocre.  But 
this  man  Harper  lacked  something,  although  it  was  to  his 
credit  to  admit  that  he  had  never  heard  of  Nietzsche.  But 
obviously  he  hadn't. 


370 


THE  SAILOR 

VIII 

MARY'S  enthusiasm  for  the  sailorman  was  shared  by 
Silvia,  although  not  perhaps  in  an  equal  degree. 
Lady  Pridmore  was  inclined  to  be  a  little  distressed 
by  it,  in  the  way  that  she  was  inclined  to  be  a  little  distressed 
by  so  many  things.  The  Prince  merely  thought  there  was 
no  harm  in  the  chap,  but  that  he  was  a  freak. 

Edward  Ambrose,  who  had  discovered  what  Lady  Prid- 
more considered  this  rather  odd  young  man,  had  many  ques- 
tions to  answer  when  next  he  appeared  in  Queen  Street. 
As  a  particular  friend  of  the  house,  he  turned  the  tables 
by  adroitly  chaffing  Lady  Pridmore  and  the  Prince,  and  by 
ministering  gaily  to  Mary's  and  Silvia's  tempered  ecstasies. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Sailor  was  indulging  little  private 
ecstasies  of  his  own.  The  visit  to  a  Mayfair  drawing-room 
had  marked  one  more  epoch  in  a  strange  career.  He  had 
entered  another  new  and  wonderful  world.  It  was  a  world 
whose  language  was  a  closed  book  to  him  at  present.  Per- 
haps it  always  would  be;  at  any  rate,  it  seemed  to  lie  out  of 
the  range  even  of  Madame  Sadleir,  whose  instruction  he  still 
courted  diligently. 

It  was  a  world  of  peculiar  grace,  of  external  harmony 
and  beauty.  The  trained  minds  marching  with  the  trained 
movements  of  these  people  lent  the  quality  of  poetry  to  all 
they  said  and  did.  And  they  took  what  he  could  only  call 
their  refinement  so  much  for  granted,  that  they  seemed  almost- 
to  apologize  for  the  sheer  niceness  in  which  they  had  so 
completely  enveloped  themselves.  He  had  not  known  that 
such  people  existed  in  mass  and  bulk,  at  least  that  they 
had  a  corporate  life  of  their  own.  The  glamour  they  had 
for  him  was  extraordinary.  It  would  have  been  impossible 
to  think  without  a  thrill  of  his  friend  Miss  Pridmore,  even 
if  she  had  not  been  the  sister  of  the  immortal  Klondyke. 


THE  SAILOR 

Mary  herself  found  so  much  in  common  with  the  Sailor 
that  she  began  to  show  him  the  sights  of  the  town.  She 
was  quite  a  modern  girl  in  her  breadth  and  independence, 
happily  inoculated  against  every  sort  of  ism,  but  at  the  same 
time  capable  of  following  any  line  she  marked  out  for  her- 
self. The  Sailor  had  soon  begun  to  interest  her  very  much, 
and  instinctively  divining  something  of  his  handicap,  she 
washed  to  help  him  all  she  could. 

About  a  week  after  the  first  visit  to  Queen  Street,  she  led 
the  young  man  to  the  National  Gallery  to  see  the  Turners. 
They  spent  a  very  profitable  morning  holding  high  com- 
munion before  them.  His  unstudied  comments  seemed  to 
give  her  a  juster  view  not  of  art  merely,  but  of  life  as  well. 
The  depth  of  his  intoxication  as  he  stood  before  these  sea- 
scapes, sensing  them,  drinking  them  in,  filled  her  with- 
wonder. 

"God!"  he  muttered  once.  She  saw  his  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  and  she  felt  a  stab  of  pity. 

Life  had  not  been  kind  to  this  man.  A  thousand  subtle.- 
half  apprehended  things  had  already  told  her  that.  He  had 
said  in  his  odd  way,  which  was  yet  so  poignant,  that  he  "had 
started  a  long  way  behind  scratch."  Indeed,  it  was  the  sight 
of  these  very  Turners  which  had  wrung  the  admission  from 
him. 

After  this,  they  went  one  day  to  Manchester  Square  to 
see  the  Wallace  collection,  and  to  concerts  on  several  Sunday 
afternoons,  but  the  climax  of  esthetic  delight  was  reached  for 
Henry  Harper  when  one  evening  he  was  taken  to  the  Opera 
to  hear  "Tristan."  Edward  Ambrose,  who  it  seemed  num- 
bered the  super-rich  among  his  friends,  had  been  lent  a  box 
on  the  grand  tier.  And  nothing  would  content  him  save  that 
others  should  share  die  blessings  which  attend  acquaintance 
with  plutocracy. 

The  box  was  able  to  accommodate  six  persons,  and  those 
372 


THE  SAILOR 

whom  Edward  Ambrose  lured  into  honoring  it  and  being 
honored  by  it  were  the  three  ladies,  the  Prince,  Henry 
Harper,  and  himself.  Lady  Pridmore  and  the  Prince  were 
a  little  bored  undoubtedly.  She  had  the  lowest  opinion  of 
Wagner  and  thought  the  Germans  overrated  generally. 
The  Prince  was  more  discreet  in  his  condemnation,  but  he 
certainly  thought  the  Prelude  was  too  long.  Edward  Am- 
brose, Mary,  and  Silvia  had  heard  it  so  often  that  it  was  al- 
most ceasing  to  be  an  excitement  for  them :  a  frame  of  mind, 
it  is  said,  which  connotes  the  amateur.  As  for  Mr.  Harper, 
that  was  an  ever-memorable  night. 

From  this  time  on  he  was  in  a  state  of  growing  ecstasy 
which  threatened  to  become  perilous.  Existence  was  now 
an  enchanted  thing.  A  veritable  Fairy  Princess  had  come 
into  his  life.  In  speech,  in  manner,  in  look,  in  deed,  she  was 
of  royal  kin.  In  all  the  Sailor's  wanderings,  in  all  his 
imaginings,  no  mortal  woman  had  assumed  the  significance 
of  this  sister  of  the  immortal  Klondyke. 

O  goddess  rare  and  strange !  He  was  already  in  her  thrall. 
She  was  gray-eyed  Athena  of  whom  his  reading  had  lately 
been  telling  him,  she  was  Wisdom  herself  come  to  earth  in 
the  disciplined  splendor  of  her  spirit.  Already  he  was 
prostrate  at  the  shrine.  It  was  for  Her  that  he  had  sailed 
the  multitudinous  seas,  it  was  for  Her  that  he  had  traversed 
noisome  caverns  measureless  to  man. 

Aladdin,  with  a  flash  of  the  wonderful  lamp,  had  shown 
him  a  reason  for  many  things.  Strange  and  dreadful  burdens 
had  been  laid  upon  him,  every  inch  of  his  endurance  had  been 
tested  in  Fate's  crucible,  that  in  the  end  he  might  win  through 
to  a  high  destiny.  Was  it  for  nothing  that,  shoeless  and 
stockingless,  he  had  cried,  "Orrible  Crime  on  the  Igh  Seas," 
in  the  slush  of  a  Blackhampton  gutter?  Was  it  for  nothing 
that  he  had  looked  on  the  Island  of  San  Pedro?  No;  there 
was  purpose  behind  it  all.  At  the  chosen  hour  the  goddess 
373 


THE  SAILOR 

Athena  was  to  appear  in  order  that  he  might  be  healed  with 
the  divine  wisdom. 

Life  was  touched  to  very  fine  issues  for  the  Sailor  now. 
And  yet  so  swift  was  the  change  that  he  did  not  realize  its 
peril.  The  sister  of  Klondyke  meant  much  to  him  already. 
Sometimes  he  read  his  work  to  her.  When  they  discussed  it 
afterwards  her  comments  would  reveal  a  depth  of  knowledge 
that  astonished  him,  and  raised  the  whole  matter  of  the 
argument  to  a  higher  plane.  Many  an  enchanted  talk  they 
had  together.  So  miraculously  were  their  minds  in  tune 
that  it  almost  seemed  they  must  have  conversed  through 
unnumbered  ages.  Then,  too,  in  the  most  tactful  and  delicate 
way,  she  was  his  guide  amid  the  elusive  paths  of  this  new  and 
divine  world  he  was  entering.  Yet  she  asked  so  little  and 
gave  so  much,  such  a  change  was  wrought  in  his  life  by  subtle 
degrees,  that  he  was  blind  to  the  terrible  danger. 

It  was  in  late  spring,  when  they  had  known  each  other 
nearly  three  months,  that  the  Sailor  had  a  first  intimation 
of  coming  disaster.  By  that  time  he  had  yielded  completely 
to  a  state  of  bliss.  Moreover,  he  was  now  in  the  thrall  of 
Athena's  counterfeit  and  epitome  as  imaged  by  other  sailor- 
men  who  had  held  communings  with  her.  She  had  sent  to 
Brinkworth  Street  on  three  successive  Mondays,  recking 
nought  of  her  deed,  certain  magic  volumes  in  which  she  her- 
self was  mirrored  by  the  mind  of  a  poet:  "Richard  Feverel," 
"Beauchamp,"  and  "The  Egoist."  And  then  as  he  felt  the 
sorcery  of  Renee,  Clara,  Lucy,  and  other  adumbrations  of 
Athena  herself,  something  happened. 

It  was  merely  that  she  went  out  of  town  for  a  fortnight. 
But  that  fortnight  was  enough  to  tell  the  Sailor  one  tragic 
thing.  A  glamour  had  gone  from  the  earth.  The  grass  of 
May  was  no  longer  green ;  Chelsea's  river  was  no  longer  a 
vindication  of  Turner;  the  birds  no  longer  sang  in  Middlesex. 

A  strange  thing  had  come  to  pass.  The  Sailor  had  suffered 
374 


THE  SAILOR 

one  sea  change  the  more.  But  at  first,  had  his  life  depended 
on  it,  he  could  not  have  said  what  it  was.  He  only  knew  that 
he  was  losing  appetite  for  the  magic  food  on  which  he  had 
been  waxing  lately :  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  devour  poetry 
rind  wisdom  in  the  way  he  had  done.  Moreover  his  pen  no 
longer  flew  across  the  paper.  It  took  him  a  whole  week  to 
clo  that  which  he  now  expected  to  accomplish  in  a  morning, 
and  then  the  result  pleased  him  so  little  that  he  tore  it  up. 

He  was  bitterly  disconcerted  by  this  mystery.  But  one 
day,  the  eighth  of  her  absence,  the  truth  came  to  him,  like  a 
ghost  in  the  night.  Life  was  no  longer  possible  without  Mary 
Pridmore. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  of  a  morning  in  June  when  this 
fact  overtook  him.  As  he  lay  in  bed,  facing  it  as  well  as 
he  could,  it  seemed  to  submerge  him.  He  sprang  forth  to 
meet  the  cold  dawn  creeping  from  the  Thames,  flung  up  the 
blind  and  opened  the  window.  In  the  grip  of  the  old  relent- 
less force  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  east.  The  faint  flecks  of 
orange  across  the  river  were  the  gates  of  paradise,  yet  the 
Sailor  hardly  knew  whether  the  sinister  gloom  beyond  was 
a  bank  of  cloud  or  the  trees  upon  the  Island  of  San  Pedro. 

In  an  exaltation  of  the  spirit  which  he  had  only  known 
once  before  in  his  life,  he  seemed  to  hear  a  particular  name 
being  twittered  by  the  birds  in  the  eaves.  Mary  Pridmore! 
Mary  Pridmore! 

It  was  fantastic,  it  was  ridiculous,  it  was  perhaps  a  form 
of  mania,  but  there  was  the  fact.  And  a  policeman,  passing 
along  Brinkworth  Street  at  that  moment,  seemed  to  tread 
out  that  magic  name  upon  its  echoing  pavement! 

She  had  given  him  her  address:  Miss  Pridmore,  at  Grey- 
lands,  near  Woking.  He  must  write,  she  had  said,  but  not 
before  he  had  finished  "The  Egoist,"  and  had  made  up  his 
mind  about  it;  thereby  revealing,  as  became  a  properly  con- 
ventional Miss  Pridmore,  that  it  was  not  so  much  the  sailor- 
375 


THE  SAILOR 

man  who  was  of  consequence  as  his  opinion  on  a  highly 
technical  matter! 

In  the  innocence  of  his  heart  he  had  already  written  and 
posted  a  letter.  His  views  were  expressed  with  a  naivete  at 
the  opposite  pole  from  Box  Hill  on  these  high  epistolary 
occasions.  It  was  not  in  this  wise  that  the  mage  addressed 
his  own  particular  goddesses. 

No  answer  had  yet  come  to  this  letter.  Therefore  in  the 
half  light  of  dawn  he  sat  down  to  write  a  second  and  more 
considered  one.  Vain  endeavor!  It  was  not  for  the  pen 
of  mortal  to  unlock  the  heart  of  the  true  prince,  unless  the 
genie  willed  it.  And  this  morning,  alas,  the  genie  was  not 
amenable.  For  it  suddenly  addressed  the  Sailor,  not  with  the 
voice  of  a  magician,  but  with  rude  horse  sense. 

"Get  into  bed,  you  fool,"  said  the  genie.  "Cease  making 
an  idiot  of  yourself.  Athena  is  as  far  beyond  you  as  the  stars 
in  their  courses  which  have  just  gone  back  into  heaven." 

The  Sailor  returned  to  his  bed,  to  dream.  He  did  his 
best  to  be  rational,  but  the  task  was  hopeless.  "Mary  Prid- 
more!  Mary  Pridmore!"  twittered  the  sparrows  in  the 
eaves  of  Chelsea. 

IX 

A  LITTLE  after  five  had  struck  by  the  church  of  St. 
Clement  at  the  bottom  of  Brinkworth  Street,  he  rose 
again  from  his  bed.    He  flung  on  his  clothes,  draped 
a  scarf  round  his  neck  in  lieu  of  a  collar,  crept  downstairs  and 
out  of  the  front  door  of  No.   14  into  the  streets  of  the 
metropolis. 

This  morning  there  was  a  coolness  in  the  air.  And  as 
soon  as  he  felt  it  he  was  able  to  think  more  clearly.  A  sharp 
thrill  ran  through  his  brain.  It  was  hardly  three  months 
since  he  had  roamed  the  streets  of  London  in  the  morning 
hours  with  tumult  in  his  heart. 
376 


THE  SAILOR 

Since  that  night  he  had  explored  whole  continents;  hardly 
anything  remained  of  many  former  worlds  he  had  inhabited : 
but  there  was  a  spear  in  the  side  of  Ulysses,  and  he  must 
always  remember  that  none  could  pluck  it  out. 

As  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  street  and  Thames  in 
his  majesty  smiled  grimly  upon  him,  he  knew  that  he  was  in 
terrible  case.  He  was  no  more  than  a  frail  mortal,  caught  in 
the  toils  of  irresistible  forces.  What  hope  had  such  a  one 
of  outfacing  the  decrees  of  fate? 

It  was  not  until  he  had  walked  for  an  hour  by  the  waters 
of  Thames  that  he  returned  to  Brinkwater  Street,  to  break- 
fast. A  letter  with  the  Woking  postmark  was  at  the  side 
of  his  plate.  It  said : 

Greylands. 

Thursday. 
MY  DEAR  MR.  HARPER, 

Your  view  of  'The  Egoist'  is  a  new  light  to  me  on  a  most 
wonderful  book.  It  is  not  exactly  how  I  see  it  myself,  but  I 
somehow  feel  you  are  very  near  the  truth.  But  when  you 
say  that  a  man  such  as  Willoughby  is  not  quite  sane  there 
is  a  point  for  argument.  You  are  also  too  severe,  I  think, 
in  your  judgment  of  the  author  of  his  being.  You  say  he 
could  never  really  have  known  what  life  is.  There  I  frankly 
don't  agree  with  you,  but  of  course  we  look  at  things  so  dif- 
ferently, and  that  is  the  great  charm  of  )rour  long  letter. 
This  is  a  very  stupid  one,  but  I  won't  apologize  for  it,  be- 
cause it  is  the  best  I  can  write,  and  I  shall  not  have  the 
presumption  to  try  to  meet  you  on  your  own  ground.  You 
have  sailed  the  High  Seas,  whereas  I  have  only  read  about 
them.  Looking  back  on  the  conversations  we  have  had  I  see 
you  as  a  master  mariner.  This  is  not  an  idle  compliment. 
You  have  not  yet  gained  your  full  stature,  you  have  yet  to 
declare  yourself  in  your  power,  but  believe  me  you  have  the 
strength  of  a  giant,  and  if  such  a  wish  is  not  an  impertinence 
I  hope  you  will  have  the  courage  to  achieve  your  destiny. 
Yours  always  most  sincerely, 

MARY  PRIDMORE. 
377 


THE  SAILOR 

This  letter  was  like  a  draft  of  wine  to  the  Sailor.  He  read 
it  many  times  before  that  day  was  out,  but  he  turned  to 
it  again  and  again  long  after  he  knew  every  word  by  heart. 
It  gave  him  a  new  zest  for  his  work.  He  had  quite  a  good 
day  with  the  pen.  Under  these  high  auspices  he  took  new 
courage  to  go  on.  Much  was  asked  of  him  by  this  sacred 
intimacy.  By  deeds  alone  could  he  show  himself  worthy. 

In  reply  to  this  letter  he  wrote  a  very  long  one  to  Miss 
Pridmore,  at  Greylands,  near  Woking.  It  was  not  so  discreet 
and  carefully  considered  as  the  one  he  had  intended  to  write ; 
he  let  himself  go  far  more  than  he  felt  he  ought  to  have  done. 
And  the  reply  he  received  the  day  before  the  fortnight  was 
up  was  similarly  expansive  and  just  as  entrancing  as  the 
former  one.  But  the  whole  effect  was  marred  by  a  grievous 
disappointment.  Instead  of  returning  from  Greylands  on  the 
morrow,  which  was  Saturday,  she  was  going  to  stay  another 
week. 

How  could  he  bear  the  burden  of  existence  for  such  an 
intolerable  length  of  time  without  a  sight  of  her?  It  was 
asking  more  of  flesh  and  blood  than  flesh  and  blood  thought 
reasonable. 

The  next  day,  Saturday,  was  a  time  of  gloom.  He  could 
not  work  at  all,  and  it  was  no  use  making  a  pretence  of  it. 
But  in  the  evening,  sadly  smoking  a  pipe  after  so  meager  a 
dinner  that  Mr.  Paley  was  quite  disconcerted,  there  came  an 
inspiration. 

Why  not  pay  a  visit  to  Woking  on  the  morrow?  Why 
not  make  his  way  to  Greylands — wherever  Greylands  might 
be — and  without  revealing  an  unsanctioned  presence,  gaze 
upon  Athena  in  all  her  glory  as  she  came  out  of  church,  which 
he  knew  she  attended  every  Sunday? 

The  idea  at  once  took  possession  of  him.  And  presently 
it  flamed  so  hot  in  his  mind  that  he  borrowed  a  Bradshaw 
from  Mr.  Paley  and  found,  as  he  had  surmised,  that  there 
378 


THE  SAILOR 

was  no  lack  of  trains  to  Woking  on  the  morrow.  He  decided 
that  the  one  which  arrived  at  9.20  would  be  the  best  for  his 
purpose.  That  would  give  him  plenty  of  time  to  locate  Grey- 
lands,  and  ample  opportunity,  no  doubt,  to  reach  it. 

Sunday  came,  a  fair  June  day,  and  the  Sailor,  having  made 
an  early,  but  in  the  circumstances  surprisingly  efficient,  break- 
fast, set  forth  to  Waterloo  Station.  Such  an  adventure  could 
receive  no  sanction  from  men  or  gods,  but  after  all,  reflected 
Henry  Harper  as  he  went  his  way,  no  possible  harm  can  come 
of  it  if  I  don't  let  her  see  me! 

The  train  arrived  at  Woking  only  five  minutes  late,  which 
was  really  not  bad  for  the  Sabbath.  Only  one  porter  was  to 
be  seen  on  the  deserted  platform,  and  he,  with  the  gruffness 
of  a  martyr  ill  resigned,  had  "never  heard  on  it,"  that  is  to 
say,  had  never  heard  of  Greylands. 

This  was  a  rebuff.  The  clerk  in  the  booking  office,  suffer- 
ing also  from  a  sense  of  injustice,  was  equally  unhelpful. 
However,  outside  the  station  was  a  solitary  flyman  in  charge 
of  a  promiscuous  vehicle,  and  he,  it  seemed,  had  heard  of 
Greylands,  moreover,  scenting  a  fare,  knew  how  to  get  there. 

"It's  afore  you  come  to  Bramshott,  just  off  the  Guildford 
Road.  How  far?  All  out  three  mile.  But  I  shan't  ask  more 
than  four  shilling." 

The  Sailor  declined  this  offer  with  politeness.  He  would 
have  plenty  of  time  to  walk,  which  was  what  he  wanted  to 
do.  The  flyman,  in  spite  of  a  keen  disappointment,  received 
such  a  sincere  and  cordial  "Good  morning,"  that  he  returned 
it  without  discourtesy. 

The  first  thing  to  enkindle  the  senses  of  the  Sailor  was  the 
smell  of  the  fresh  country  earth.  A  very  little  rain  had  fallen 
in  the  night,  but  enough  to  renew  with  a  divine  cleanliness 
these  wide  spaces,  these  open  heaths. 

The  bracken,  young  and  green  and  a  mass  of  shining 
crystals,  was  uncurling  itself  on  each  side  of  the  road.  The 
25  379 


THE  SAILOR 

birds  were  in  full  choir,  the  trees  were  near  the  pomp  of  mid- 
summer, the  sun  of  June  made  a  glory  of  the  distant  hills. 
It  was  a  noble  world.  Long  before  the  Sailor  came  to  Grey- 
lands  he  was  like  a  harp  strung  and  touched  to  ecstasy  by  the 
implicit  hand  of  nature. 

He  knew  he  was  speculating  on  the  bare  chance  of  a  sight 
of  Athena.  There  was  nothing  to  tell  him  that  she  would 
go  that  morning  to  Bramshott  parish  church.  The  only 
guide  he  had  was  that  she  went  to  church  at  least  once  every 
Sunday,  and  sometimes  twice,  but  whether  this  would  involve 
attendance  at  the  local  service  must  be  the  part  of  faith  to 
answer. 

At  any  rate,  whether  he  set  eyes  on  her  or  not,  he  was 
trudging  to  Greylands  through  the  bracken  in  ease  of  mind 
and  high  expansion  of  spirit.  He  might  not  see  her,  yet  he 
was  giving  himself  the  glorious  opportunity.  It  was  on  the 
knees  of  the  gods,  but  already  he  felt  stronger,  braver,  saner, 
for  having  put  it  to  the  touch. 

A  little  after  ten  he  came  to  Bramshott  village.  It  was 
a  small  place  of  quaint  timber-framed  houses,  and  in  the 
middle  was  a  church.  But  it  all  seemed  commonplace  enough. 
There  was  nothing  here  to  minister  to  an  intense  emotion; 
nothing  but  the  sun,  the  birds,  the  sky,  the  bracken,  the 
perfumed  loveliness  of  mother  earth. 

He  was  not  such  a  fool  as  to  fear  his  ecstasy.  Come 
what  might  he  would  live  his  hour.  The  towers  of  Grey- 
lands,  he  was  told  in  the  village,  could  be  seen  from  the 
church  porch.  There  they  were,  sure  enough,  banked  and 
massive,  cutting  across  the  sun  with  their  importunate  red 
brick.  This,  at  any  rate,  was  her  local  habitation.  It  was 
his  to  gaze  upon  even  if  no  other  guerdon  rewarded  him. 

As  became  a  true  sailorman,  who  had  sailed  six  years 
before  the  mast,  he  had  brought  home  a  pocket  of  horse  sense 
from  his  wanderings.  Therefore,  as  soon  as  he  had  drunk  his 
380 


THE  SAILOR 

fill  of  those  flanked  towers,  he  went  inside  the  church  and 
found  a  decrepit  pew-opener  who  was  full  of  information. 

The  service  began  at  eleven.  Reverend  Manson  was  the 
vicar  and  also  the  squire  of  the  parish,  although  Greylands 
was  the  rich  folk,  and  they  always  came  of  a  Sunday  morning, 
whatever  the  weather,  if  the  Fambly  was  at  home.  Their 
name  was  Ellis,  and  they  were  very  rich. 

Armed  with  this  knowledge,  the  Sailor  decided  upon  a 
bold  course.  He  took  up  a  position  in  a  corner  of  the  church 
some  way  behind  the  Greylands  pew,  which  had  been  duly 
pointed  out  to  him.  Here  he  sat  unseen  with  one  solid  pillar 
to  conceal  him.  But  he  had  taken  care  that  in  spite  of  the 
pillar  a  clear  sight  of  the  Greylands  pew  should  be  his. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  to  eleven.  But  it  came  at  last, 
and  with  it,  or  rather  shortly  before  it,  by  the  courtesy  of  the 
gods,  came  Mary  Pridmore.  She  entered  before  the  Sailor, 
counting  the  seconds  in  his  fastness,  realized  that  she  was 
there. 

She  wore  a  simple  dress  of  soft  gray  and  a  black  hat. 
But  in  no  particular  had  she  abated  a  whit  of  her  regality. 
In  that  fine  outline  was  a  quality  that  made  his  pulses  leap. 
As  she  went  down  the  aisle  with  two  white-spatted,  ultra- 
princelike  cavaliers,  and  two  ladies,  older  than  she,  yet  in 
garb  more  fanciful,  the  Sailor  caught  just  a  glimpse  of  her 
face.  Yes,  this  was  Athena  herself,  a  creature  altogether 
splendid  yet  restrained,  who  drew  the  Sailor's  very  soul  and 
held  it,  while  she  knelt  on  her  hassock,  with  an  air  of  gravest 
submission  and  dignity. 

Suddenly  he  realized  that  she  was  praying.  With  a  rather 
irrational  impulse  of  shame  he  fell  on  his  knees.  The  knowl- 
edge abased  him  that  he  had  neglected  this  obvious  duty, 
but  yet  he  had  the  excuse,  such  as  it  was,  that  this  was  the 
very  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  entered  a  church. 

Hitherto — if  the  Sailor  must  face  the  truth — the  whole  of 
38i 


THE  SAILOR 

his  intercourse  with  religious  things  had  been  confined  to  two 
tea  and  bun  fights  with  addresses  to  follow,  under  the  aegis 
of  that  light  of  his  youth,  the  Reverend  Rogers,  at  the  Brook- 
field  Street  Mission  Hall.  Therefore  he  didn't  know  in  the 
least  what  to  do.  However,  let  him  keep  his  eyes  in  front  of 
him.  When  Athena  got  up  he  must  get  up.  when  she  sat 
down  he  must  sit  down.  And  kneeling  as  she  kneeled,  he 
devoutly  hoped  that  he  was  rendering  homage  to  the  same 
God  as  she,  although  with  far  less  whole-hearted  allegiance 
than  hers  at  the  moment. 

It  was  hard  to  know  what  use  to  make  of  the  Book  of 
Common  Prayer  that  the  verger  had  given  him.  He  had 
never  opened  such  a  volume  before.  To  the  best  of  his 
recollection  one  had  been  lent  him  at  the  Brookfield  Street 
Mission  Hall,  but  certainly  it  had  not  been  opened.  It  would 
have  been  no  use  to  do  so,  seeing  that  he  could  not  read  a 
word  of  it  then.  But  he  could  read  it  now,  and  he  desired 
to  render  thanks  for  that  miraculous,  that  crowning  mercy. 

The  service  was  long,  but  to  the  Sailor  it  was  entrancing. 
The  imperial  outline  of  Athena  was  ever  before  him;  and 
yet  in  despite  of  her  he  had  at  least  a  part  of  a  devout  mind 
to  spare  for  an  ancient  mystery.  Reverend  Manson  in  his 
dual  role  of  vicar  and  squire  of  Bramshott  was  something  of 
a  patriarch.  It  was  a  fine  face,  and  to  the  Sailor  it  was  a 
symbolical  presence.  He  was  simple  and  sincere,  and  what- 
ever his  learning  may  have  been  he  wore  it  like  a  flower. 
Somehow,  Reverend  Manson  spoke  to  the  heart  of  the  Sailor. 
During  that  enchanted  hour  he  followed  him  into  an  un- 
known kingdom.  Yet  as  he  did  this  the  young  man  was 
thrilled  by  the  thought  that  he  did  not  journey  alone.  Athena 
was  with  him  at  every  step  he  took. 

The  prayers  passed  and  the  singing,  which  affected  him 
strangely ;  then  came  the  sermon,  and  after  that  more  singing, 
and  then  came  the  verger  with  the  collection  plate.  The 
382 


THE  SAILOR 

Sailor  put  in  half  a  sovereign;  anything  but  gold  seemed 
a  profanation  of  a  most  solemn  rite.  And  then  he  did  an 
immensely  wise  thing.  He  glided  swiftly,  in  the  midst  of  the 
hymn,  out  of  the  church,  and  out  of  Bramshott  village  into 
the  lanes  of  Surrey. 


MORE  than  one  long  and  golden  hour  the  Sailor  wan- 
dered through  bracken  and  heather.  He  didn't 
know  in  the  least  where  he  was  going,  and  there 
seemed  no  reason  why  he  should  care.  He  had  a  wonderful 
sense  of  adventure.  Here  was  something  real.  This  was 
the  noble  and  gorgeous  life  to  which  the  streets  of  Black- 
hampton,  the  deck  of  the  Margaret  Carey,  the  sojourn  at 
King  John's  Mansions  were  the  dreadful  but  necessary 
prelude. 

After  a  long  beat  across  country,  and  away,  away  he 
knew  not  where,  he  struck  a  path  which  carried  him  into  a 
charming  village  tucked  away  under  a  hill.  It  then  occurred 
to  him  that  he  was  very  hungry.  The  sign  of  "The 
Chequers"  in  the  village  street  brought  the  fact  home.  At 
this  neat  hostelry  with  a  roof  of  thatch  he  was  able  to  de- 
clare himself  a  bona  fide  traveler,  and  was  rewarded  with  a 
noble  chunk  of  bread  and  cheese  and  a  glass  of  beer,  a  thin 
and  tepid  brew  whose  only  merit  was  the  quality  of  wet- 
ness. But  such  fare  and  an  hour's  rest  on  a  wooden  bench  in 
a  cool  parlor  with  a  sanded  floor  was  Elysium. 

After  that  again  the  road — but  only  the  road  in  a  manner 
of  speaking.  The  Sailor,  roaming  now  the  high  seas  of  his 
desire,  was  in  no  mood  at  present  for  the  ordered  routes  of 
commerce.  Let  it  be  the  open  country.  Let  him  be  borne 
across  multitudinous  seas  on  the  wings  of  fancy.  Therefore, 
as  a  bird  flies,  he  struck  across  the  pathless  heather.  The 
383 


THE  SAILOR 

bracken  rose  waist  high,  but  wherever  it  ran  he  followed  it, 
now  through  the  close-grown  woods,  now  across  furzy  com- 
mon and  open  spaces. 

On  and  on  he  wandered  all  the  golden  afternoon.  And 
then  quite  suddenly  came  evening  and  an  intense  weariness 
which  was  not  made  less  because  he  didn't  know  where  he 
was.  He  only  knew  that  he  was  in  Surrey  and  very  tired. 
But,  all  at  once,  Providence  declared  itself  in  an  unexpected 
way.  Straight  ahead  among  the  trees  was  a  tiny  opening, 
and  threading  it  a  hum  of  telegraph  wires.  - 

This  could  only  mean  that  a  main  road  was  at  hand. 
Quickened  to  new  life  by  such  a  rare  piece  of  luck  he  pushed 
on,  thanking  his  stars.  Evidently  he  could  not  be  far  from 
a  town  or  a  railway.  As  a  fact,  he  had  struck  the  Guilford 
Road,  and  a  hundred  yards  or  so  along  it  the  friendliest  mile- 
stone he  had  ever  met  assured  him  that  he  was  three  miles 
from  the  country  town  of  Surrey. 

Those  three  miles,  honest  turnpike  as  they  were,  proved 
a  test  of  endurance.  But  they  ended  at  last.  Footsore  and 
limping  now,  he  crossed  a  bridge  and  entered  a  railway  station 
where  the  lamps  were  lit  already.  And  then  Providence 
really  surpassed  itself!  The  last  train  to  London  was  due 
in  twenty  minutes. 

The  Sailor  flung  himself  down  on  a  seat  in  the  station  in 
a  state  of  heavenly  fatigue.  It  had  been  such  a  day  as  he 
had  never  known,  and  his  final  gracious  act  of  fortune  was 
a  fitting  climax.  It  was  true  the  last  train  to  London  was 
twenty  minutes  late,  but  it  sufficed  to  know  that  it  was 
surely  coming. 

Finally  it  came,  and  the  Sailor  entered  it.  Moreover,  he 
had  the  carriage  to  himself,  and  was  able  to  lie  full  length 
on  the  cushions  in  an  orgy  of  weariness.  He  dozed  deliciously 
all  the  way  to  Waterloo,  which  he  reached  at  something  after 
eleven.  It  was  striking  midnight  by  St.  Clement's  Church 
384 


THE  SAILOR 

as  he  turned  the  latchkey  in  the  door  of  No.  14  Brinkworth 
Street.  At  a  quarter  past  that  hour  the  Sailor  was  in  his 
bed  too  deeply  asleep  even  to  dream  of  Athena. 


XI 


ONE  of  Mary  Pridmore's  first  acts  upon  her  return 
from  Greylands  was  to  summon  the  sailorman  to 
dine  in  Queen  Street.    She  was  a  little  peremptory. 
That  is  to  say,  she  could  take  no  refusal;  it  seemed  that  a 
certain  Mr.  Nixon,  a  Cabinet  Minister,  had  expressed  a  wish 
to  meet  the  author  of  "Dick  Smith." 

Miss  Pridmore  was  a  little  excited  by  this  desire  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Nixon.  In  her  opinion,  if  you  were  a  member 
of  the  Cabinet,  it  was  important  you  should  be  met;  yet 
Henry  Harper  did  not  attach  as  much  significance  to  the 
matter  as  perhaps  he  ought  to  have  done.  In  fact,  he  was  a 
little  vague  upon  the  subject.  He  knew  that  the  newspapers 
talked  mysteriously  about  the  Cabinet,  and  abused  it  fear- 
fully every  morning  with  the  most  devoted  and  courageous 
persistency;  also  he  remembered  that  one  of  Auntie's  tem- 
porary husbands  was  said  to  have  been  a  cabinetmaker  when 
he  was  in  work,  but  neither  this  fact,  nor  the  attitude  of  the 
public  press,  seemed  to  afford  any  reason  why  he  must  in 
no  circumstances  disappoint  the  President  of  the  Board  of 
Supererogation. 

"Please  don't  be  so  cool  to  the  Cabinet,  Mr.  Harper," 
Athena  pleaded,  while  the  young  man  sought  a  way  out  of 
the  impasse.  "When  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Nixon  asks  to  meet 
you,  it  means  that  you  have  really  arrived.  Not  that  it 
matters.  You  have  arrived  without  any  help  from  Mr. 
Nixon.  But  he  is  an  old  friend  of  mother's,  and  he  is 
greatly  interested  in  your  book." 
385 


THE  SAILOR 

The  Sailor  wanted  very  particularly,  but  as  delicately  as 
he  could,  to  escape  the  ordeal  of  dining  in  Queen  Street, 
Mayfair.  Instinct  warned  him  that  this  would  prove  a 
different  matter  from  a  party  in  Bury  Street.  The  truth  was, 
he  had  not  been  able  to  overcome  an  unreasonable  awe  of 
Lady  Pridmore.  Then,  too,  he  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he 
was  a  little  out  of  his  depth  with  the  Prince.  Yet  again, 
Miss  Silvia,  friendly  and  amusing  as  she  was,  gave  him  a 
slight  sense  of  hidden,  invisible  barriers  which  he  could  never 
hope  to  surmount. 

Mary,  however,  would  take  no  denial.  Her  mother  would 
be  much  -disappointed,  and  so  would  Mr.  Nixon,  and  so 
would  Uncle  George,  who  had  also  expressed  a  desire  to  be 
present.  In  Lady  Pridmore's  opinion  this  really  "ranged" 
Mr.  Harper,  and  with  such  a  person  as  Lady  Pridmore, 
that  was  an  operation  of  the  first  magnitude,  not,  of  course, 
that  her  daughter  confided  that  to  the  Sailor  in  so  many 
words. 

"I  am  talking  nonsense,"  said  Mary,  with  that  sharp 
turn  of  frankness  which  the  Sailor  adored  in  her.  "If  you 
don't  want  to  meet  people,  there  is  no  reason  why  you 
should.  I  sometimes  feel  exactly  the  same  myself.  Mr. 
Nixon  is  a  bore,  and  Uncle  George — well,  he's  Uncle  George. 
i  It  will  be  a  tiresome  evening  for  you,  but  Edward  is  coming 
and  Jack  Ellis,  whom  we  both  like,  and  his  fiancee  who  is 
quite  amusing,  and  if  you  really  decide  to  come,  I  am  sure 
it  will  please  mother." 

The  Sailor  saw,  however,  that  it  would  please  Mary.  And 
that  was  reason  enough  for  him  to  accept  the  invitation 
after  all. 

When  the  day  came,  it  was  in  fear  and  trembling  that  he 

put  on  his  new  evening  clothes,  with  which  he  had  been 

provided  by  Edward  Ambrose's  own  tailor.    Upon  a  delicate 

hint  from  his  friend,  he  discarded  his  first  suit,  which  he 

386 


THE  SAILOR 

now  realized  was  a  little  too  crude  for  a  growing  reputation. 
Yet,  rather  oddly,  he  could  hardly  be  brought  to  understand 
that  he  had  such  a  thing  as  a  reputation.  Indeed,  it  was 
only  in  Queen  Street,  Mayfair,  that  a  reputation  seemed  to 
matter. 

A  dinner  party  at  No.  50  was  a  serious  affair.  He  had 
to  begin  by  shaking  hands  with  Lady  Pridmore,  who  looked 
like  a  lady  from  the  walls  of  Burlington  House.  A  week 
ago  he  had  been  with  Mary  to  the  Royal  Academy  of  Arts. 
Then,  also,  formidable  looking  strangers  abounded.  Fore- 
most of  these  was  Uncle  George. 

Uncle  George  was  an  elderly  admiral  retired.  Among 
the  younger  members  of  the  family  he  was  known  as  "Old 
Blunderbore."  His  voice,  once  of  great  use  on  the  quarter- 
deck, was  really  a  little  too  much  for  a  drawing-room  of 
modest  dimensions.  Also,  his  opinions  were  many  and  they 
were  unqualified,  his  stories  were  long  and  quite  pointless  as 
a  rule,  he  was  apt  to  indulge  in  a  kind  of  ventriloquial  enter- 
tainment when  he  ate  his  soup,  he  drank  a  goodish  deal, 
and  was  not  always  very  polite  to  the  servants;  yet  being 
Uncle  George,  his  sister-in-law  seemed  to  feel  that  he  was 
a  person  of  immense  consequence,  and  he  did  not  disguise 
the  fact  that  he  considered  her  a  sensible  woman  for  think- 
ing so. 

Uncle  George  seized  the  hand  of  the  Sailor  in  marine 
style,  and  said,  in  his  loud  voice,  "Good  book  you  wrote, 
young  man.  'Adventures  of  Paul  Jones.'  Good  book. 
Some  of  it's  true,  I'm  told,  and,  of  course,  that  makes  it 
much  better." 

At  this  point,  Mary  the  watchful  led  the  Sailor  gently  but 
firmly  out  of  the  range  of  Uncle  George. 

That  warrior,  baffled  of  his  prey,  fell  like  a  sea  leopard 
upon  Edwa-d  Ambrose,  who,  however,  countered  him  quietly 
and  with  frank  amusement. 

387 


THE  SAILOR 

"Never  made  a  bigger  mistake  in  your  life,  Ambrose,  than 
to  compare  'Paul  Jones'  with  'Robinson  Crusoe.'  " 

Ambrose  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  point  out  that 
he  had  never  once  mentioned  "Paul  Jones,"  and  that  he  was 
too  wise  a  man  ever  to  compare  anything  with  "Robinson 
Crusoe."  Instead,  he  laughed  the  note  that  was  quite 
peculiar  to  himself,  and  mildly  asked  Uncle  George  what 
he  thought  of  the  latest  performance  of  the  First  Lord  of 
the  Admiralty. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Sailor  was  having  to  sustain  the 
shock  of  a  first  meeting  with  the  President  of  the  Board  of 
Supererogation.  His  mentor  had  already  described  this 
pillar  of  the  Government  as  a  bore.  But  the  Sailor  was  not 
yet  sufficiently  acquainted  with  things  and  men  to  regard 
the  Right  Honorable  Gregory  Nixon  with  this  measure  of 
detachment. 

The  impact,  however,  of  the  Front  Bench  manner  was 
less  severe  than  was  to  have  been  expected.  The  voice  of 
Mr.  Nixon  was  nothing  like  so  formidable  as  his  appearance. 

"A  great  pleasure,  a  great  pleasure."  Mr.  Nixon  had  a 
trick  of  repeating  his  phrases.  "Pray,  how  did  you  come 
to  write  it  all?  Angrove  thinks" — to  the  profound  and 
morbid  horror  of  the  public  press,  Mr.  Angrove  at  that 
moment  was  the  Prime  Minister  of  the  realm — "Angrove 
thinks  .  .  ." 

Happily,  the  butler  informed  his  mistress  that  dinner  was 
served,  and  for  a  time  Mr.  Nixon  had  to  postpone  what  Mr. 
Angrove  thought. 

It  was  only  for  a  time,  however,  that  it  was  possible  to  do 
so.  The  President  of  the  Board  of  Supererogation  did  all  his 
thinking  vicariously  in  terms  of  Mr.  Angrove.  But  there  was 
just  one  subject  on  which  Mr.  Nixon  had  opinions  of  his 
own.  That  was  the  subject  of  divorce,  and  it  may  have  been 
for  the  reason  that  it  was  not  a  cabinet  matter.  Before  the 
388 


THE  SAILOR 

evening  was  over,  it  was  tolerably  certain  that  the  President 
of  the  Board  of  Supererogation  would  identify  himself  pub- 
licly and  at  length  with  the  minority  report. 

This  cheerless  fact  had  to  be  taken  for  granted.  Divorce 
in  its  various  aspects  was  a  constant  preoccupation  of  the 
right  honorable  gentleman.  He  had  never  been  married  him- 
self, and  was  never  likely  to  be.  Had  this  not  been  the 
case  Mr.  Gregory  Nixon  must  have  felt  bound  to  defer  to 
any  opinion  that  Mr.  Angrove. might  or  might  not  have  ex- 
pressed upon  the  matter. 

"We  are  in  for  it  now,"  whispered  Mary  to  the  Sailor,  who 
was  eating  the  entree,  sweetbreads  with  white  sauce,  and 
wishing  he  could  use  a  knife  as  well  as  a  fork.  "But  it's 
Uncle  George's  fault.  He's  given  him  a  chance  with  his 
silly  and  pointless  story,  which  is  a  mere  perversion  of  a  very 
much  better  one.  There,  what  did  I  say?" 

It  was  tragically  true,  that  Mr.  Nixon  was  already  in  the 
saddle. 

"If  he  would  only  say  something  sensible!  He  is  like 
that  character  in  Dickens — but  his  King  Charles's  head  is 
the  minority  report." 

Still,  this  may  have  been  a  woman's  thrust,  because  Mary 
did  not  happen  to  be  an  admirer  of  Mr.  Nixon's  personality. 
Yet  he  was  a  very  agreeable  man,  and  on  the  subject  of 
divorce  he  talked  extraordinarily  well,  perhaps  quite  as  well 
as  it  is  possible  for  any  human  being  to  talk  on  such  a  vexed 
and  complicated  subject. 

Mr.  Nixon  knew  that,  no  doubt.  The  fact  was,  that  just 
as  one  man  may  have  a  genius  for  playing  chess,  another  for 
shooting  clay  pigeons,  a  third  for  hitting  a  golf  ball  or  casting 
a  fly,  so  this  eminent  politician  had  a  genius  for  discussing 
divorce.  He  may  have  felt  that  on  that  topic  no  human  being 
could  stand  against  him  at  a  small  dinner  party  where  the 
conversation  was  general.  Lady  Pridmore  seemed  grieved. 
389 


THE  SAILOR 

when  her  hero  began  to  expose  this  flaw  in  the  armor  of  a 
Christian  gentleman,  Uncle  George  became  furious  and  was 
suddenly  rude  to  the  butler,  Mary  and  Silvia  and  the  Prince 
looked  the  picture  of  misery,  and  Edward  Ambrose  came 
within  an  ace  of  choking  himself. 

All  the  same,  the  discussion  which  followed  was  of  breath- 
less interest  to  one  person  at  that  table.  Henry  Harper 
hung  on  every  word  of  it. 

Mary  herself  was  the  first  to  take  up  the  gage  of  battle. 
And  she  took  it  up  gallantly.  She  didn't  think  for  a  moment 
that  divorce  ought  to  be  made  more  easy.  In  her  opinion, 
it  ought  to  be  made  more  difficult. 

"Why  ?"  asked  Mr.  Nixon.  He  asked  no  more  than  that, 
but  there  was  the  weight  of  several  royal  commissions  in  the 
inquiry. 

But  Mary  had  the  flame  of  war  in  her  eyes.  She  knew 
what  Mr.  Nixon's  opinions  were,  and  she  was  heartily 
ashamed  of  them.  On  this  subject  she  could  make  a  very 
good  show  for  herself,  because  she  happened  to  feel  strongly 
upon  it. 

Mr.  Nixon  was  a  latitudinarian.  He  would  have  divorce 
brought  within  the  reach  of  all  classes  of  the  community. 
It  should  be  equally  accessible  to  the  poor  and  the  well-to-do. 
He  would  greatly  amplify  the  grounds  for  obtaining  it,  and 
even  went  the  length  of  affirming  that  the  mutual  consent  of 
the  contracting  parties  should  alone  suffice.  Moreover,  he 
saw  no  reason  why  marriage  should  not  be  a  contract  like 
any  other  for  a  period  of  years. 

Mary  bluntly  considered  these  were  abominable  heresies, 
and  several  other  women,  not  to  mention  Mr.  Ellis  and 
Uncle  George,  shared  her  opinion.  Even  Lady  Pridmore, 
who  in  her  .heart  was  horrified  by  her  hero's  fall,  was  moved 
to  remark  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  carry  on  society  tm 
any  such  basis. 

390 


THE  SAILOR 

"Of  course  it  would,"  said  Mary,  with  a.  vehemence  that 
was  startling.  "For  better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer, 
that's  my  view.  I  dare  say  it's  old-fashioned,  but  I'm  sure 
it's  right." 

"There  I  dissent,"  said  Mr.  Nixon.  "It  isn't  right  at 
all.  Our  marriage  laws  are  out  of  date.  They  can  no  longer 
meet  the  needs  of  the  community.  They  are  as  far  behind 
the  twentieth  century  as  a  stage  coach  or  a  two-horse  omnibus. 
Untold  misery  and  hardship  have  been  inflicted  upon  the 
population,  and  it  is  high  time  there  was  practical  legislation 
upon  the  subject." 

"Marriage,"  said  Mary,  with  charming  pugnacity,  "is 
the  most  sacred  contract  into  which  it  is  possible  for  any 
human  being  to  enter.  And  if  it  is  not  to  be  binding,  I  really 
don't  know  what  contract  is  or  can  hope  to  be.  What  is 
your  view  of  the  question,  Mr.  Harper?"  she  asked,  suddenly, 
of  the  young  man  at  her  side. 

The  Sailor  had  been  listening  with  an  attention  almost 
painful.  But  he  felt  quite  unequal  to  taking  a  part  in  the 
argument.  Therefore  he  contented  himself  with  the  general 
statement  that  it  ought  to  be  easier  to  get  a  divorce  than  it 
was  at  present. 

"I  am  grieved  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said  Athena,  with 
a  note  in  her  voice  which  startled  him.  "I  know  I  am  rather 
a  fanatic,  but  I  really  don't  see  how  there  can  be  two  opinions 
upon  the  matter." 

Feeling  very  unhappy,  Henry  Harper  did  not  try  to  con- 
test the  point.  But  this  was  a  subject  upon  which  she  felt 
so  strongly  that  she  could  not  leave  it  in  such  a  very  un- 
satisfactory state. 

"Those  whom  God  hath  joined  let  no  man  put  asunder," 
said  Athena.  "How  is  it  possible  to  go  beyond  that!  I 
would  even  abolish  divorce  altogether." 

The  young  man  felt  a  sudden  chill. 
391 


THE  SAILOR 

"Suppose  a  man  had  been  divorced  through  no  fault  of 
his  own?"  he  said  in  a  far-away  voice. 

"I  don't  think  a  divorced  person  ought  ever  to  remarry." 

"That  might  hit  some  people  very  hard,"  said  Henry 
Harper,  perhaps  without  a  full  understanding  of  the  words 
he  used. 

"There  are  bound  to  be  cases  in  which  it  would  work 
very  cruelly.  One  realizes  that.  But  ought  it  to  make  a 
difference?  There  must  always  be  those  who  have  to  be 
sacrificed  for  the  sake  of  the  community." 

Henry  Harper  appreciated  the  strength  of  that  argument. 
At  the  moment,  in  the  strangeness  of  his  surroundings,  he 
was  not  able  to  grapple  with  it.  But  he  was  dimly  aware 
that  almost  unknown  to  himself  he  had  come  to  the  border 
of  another  perilous  country. 

XII 

AS  the  June  night  was  ablaze  with  stars  Edward  Am- 
brose and  the  Sailor  walked  some  of  the  way  home 
together. 

"I  hope  you  enjoyed  yourself,"  said  Ambrose. 
Was  it  possible  for  a  man  to  do  otherwise  with  gray-eyed 
Athena  sitting  beside  him  nearly  the  whole  evening! 
"I  enjoyed  myself  very  much,"  said  the  Sailor  simply. 
"The  Pridmores  are  very  old  friends  of  mine.     An  in- 
teresting family,  I  always  think." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  little  time,  and  then  the 
Sailer  said  suddenly: 

"Mary  seems  to  have  strong  ideas  about  divorce."  As 
he  spoke  he  felt  a  curious  tension. 

"Surprisingly  so,"  said  Edward  Ambrose,  in  his  detached 
way,  "for  such  a  modern  girl.  Somehow  one  doesn't  quite 
expect  it." 

392 


THE  SAILOR 

"No,"  said  the  Sailor. 

"It  is  the  measure  of  her  genuineness."  Edward  Ambrose 
seemed  at  that  moment  to  be  addressing  his  words  less  to  the 
young  man  at  his  side  than  to  the  stars  of  heaven.  "But  she 
is  very  complex  to  me.  I've  known  her  all  her  life.  .  .  . 
I've  watched  her  grow  up."  A  whimsical  sigh  was  certainly 
addressed  to  the  stars  of  heaven.  "It  is  rather  wonderful 
to  see  all  that  Pridmore  and  Colthurst  crassness  and  narrow- 
ness, that  has  somehow  made  England  great  in  spite  of 
itself — if  you  know  what  I  mean  .  .  ." 

The  Sailor  didn't  know  in  the  least,  but  that  was  of  no 
consequence  to  Edward  Ambrose  in  the  expression  of  his 
mood. 

"...  touched  to  finer  issues." 

The  Sailor  knew  now,  but  his  companion  gave  him  no 
chance  to  say  so. 

"She's  so  strong  and  fine,  so  independent,  so  modern!" 
Edward  Ambrose  laughed  his  rare  note,  yet  for  some  reason 
it  was  without  gaiety. 

The  truth  was  he  had  long  been  deeply  in  love  with 
Mary  Pridmore,  but  it  was  only  in  certain  moments  that  he 
realized  it. 

"I  suppose  you  knew  Klondyke?"  said  the  Sailor,  wist- 
fully. 

"Her  brother  Jack?  Oh,  yes.  He's  thrown  back  to  some 
Viking  strain.  One  can  hardly  imagine  his  being  the  brother 
of  Otto  and  the  son  of  his  mother  or  the  son  of  his 
father." 

"I  can  imagine  Mary  being  the  sister  of  Klondyke,"  said 
the  Sailor. 

"Really!     I   never  see  her  at  quite  that  angle   myself. 

He's   a   funny   chap."      Edward   Ambrose   was   really   not 

thinking  at  all  of  any  mere  male  member  of  the  Pridmore 

family.     "Might  have  done  well  in  diplomacy.     Son  of  his 

393 


THE  SAILOR 

father.  Ought  to  have  gone  far."  Again  Edward  Ambrose 
loosed  his  wonderful  note,  but  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  Jack 
Pridmore.  "And  what  does  he  do  ?  And  yet,  the  odd  thing 
is  he  may  be  right." 

"Klondyke's  a  white  man  from  way  back,"  said  the  Sailor 
.abruptly. 

'The  phrase  was  new  to  Edward  Ambrose,  who,  as  became 
a  man  with  a  keen  literary  sense,  turned  it  over  in  his  mind. 
And  then  he  suddenly  remembered  that  he  owed  it  to  his 
friends,  the  Pridmores,  to  be  a  little  more  guarded  in  his 
utterances  concerning  them. 

"Good  night,  Henry,"  he  said,  offering  his  hand  at  the 
corner  of  Albemarle  Street. 

In  the  same  moment,  a  human  derelict  fastened  upon  the 
Sailor,  who  had  to  send  him  away  with  the  price  of  a  bed 
before  he  could  return  his  friend's  good  night. 

Thinking  their  thoughts  they  went  their  ways.  Edward 
Ambrose  crossed  in  a  black  mood  to  St.  James  Street.  For 
a  reason  he  could  not  explain  a  sudden  depression  had  come 
upon  him.  A  sharp  sense  of  life's  tragic  complexity  had 
entered  his  mind.  In  order  to  correct  its  dire  influence 
he  lit  a  pipe  and  started  to  read  a  manuscript  which  had 
come  to  him  that  morning.  It  was  called,  "A  Master  Mar- 
iner," Book  the  First. 

"Damn  it  all,"  he  thought  a  few  minutes  later.  "There 
can  be  no  possible  doubt  about  that  boy.  If  he  can  only 
put  the  whole  thing  through  in  this  style,  what  a  book  it 
will  be!" 


I 


XIII 

N  the  meantime,  the  Sailor  was  walking  home  to  Brink- 
worth  Street,  distributing  largesse. 

"Poor,  broken  mariners,"  he  said,  when  his  pockets 
394 


THE  SAILOR 

were  finally  empty.  "Poor  marooned  sailormen.  I  expect 
all  these  have  seen  the  Island  of  San  Pedro.  I  expect  some 
of  them  are  living  on  it  now." 

He  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  He  had  begun  to  realize 
that  he  was  getting  into  very  deep  waters.  The  truth  was, 
he  was  growing  a  little  afraid.  He  had  been  a  little  afraid 
ever  since  that  magical  Sunday  in  the  wilds  of  Surrey.  And 
'  now  tonight,  as  he  lay  tossing  on  his  pillow,  a  very  definite 
sense  of  peril  was  slowly  entering  into  him.  If  he  was  not 
very  careful,  the  tide  of  affairs  would  prove  too  much,  and 
he  would  find  himself  carried  out  to  sea. 

As  he  lay  awake  through  the  small  hours,  the  sinister  truth 
grew  clear  that  grim  forces  were  closing  upon  him  again.  His 
will  was  in  danger  of  being  overpowered,  if  it  was  not  over- 
powered already.  Mary  Pridmore  had  come  to  mean  so 
much  to  him  that  it  seemed  quite  impossible  to  hold  life  on 
any  terms  without  her.  Yet  it  was  morbidly  weak  to  admit 
for  a  single  moment  anything  of  the  kind. 

During  the  week  that  followed,  Mary  and  "the  sailor- 
rnan"  undertook  several  harmless  little  excursions.  One 
afternoon  she  called  for  him  with  Silvia  in  her  mother's  car 
and  drove  by  way  of  Richmond  Park  to  Hampton  Court. 
For  the  Sailor  that  was  a  very  memorable  day.  He  had  a 
walk  alone  in  the  palace  garden  with  Athena,  while  Silvia, 
with  a  keen  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  paid  a  call  upon 
some  friends  of  hers  in  what  she  impudently  called  the  Royal 
Workhouse. 

This  enchanted  afternoon,  Mary  and  the  Sailor  didn't 
talk  divorce.  Many  things  in  earth  and  heaven  they  talked 
about,  but  that  subject  was  not  among  them.  They  scaled 
the  heights  together,  they  roamed  the  mountain  places.  She 
told  him  that  the  first  book  of  "A  Master  Mariner,"  which 
she  had  been  allowed  to  read  in  manuscript,  had  carried  her 
completely  away,  and  she  most  sincerely  hoped  that  he  would 
26  395 


THE  SAILOR 

be  able  to  sustain  a  soaring  eagle  flight  through  the  hundreds 
of  pages  of  the  two  books  to  follow. 

"But  you  will,"  she  said.  "I  am  convinced  of  it.  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  that  you  must." 

As  she  spoke  the  words  the  look  of  her  amidst  a  glory  of 
color  set  his  soul  on  fire.  It  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to 
refrain  from  taking  the  hand  of  Athena.  He  wanted  to  cry 
aloud  his  happiness.  She  looked  every  inch  of  royal  kin  as 
thus  she  stood  amid  flowers,  a  high  and  grave  wisdom  en- 
folding her.  She  was  indeed  a  daughter  of  the  gods,  tall, 
slender,  virile,  an  aureole  of  purest  poetry  upon  her  brows 
that  only  John  Milton  could  have  hymned  in  their  serenity. 

"Edward  Ambrose  thinks  as  I  do  about  it,"  she  said. 
"He  dined  with  us  last  night,  and  afterwards  we  had  a  long 
talk.  I  hardly  dare  tell  what  hopes  he  has  of  you.  And,  of 
course,  one  oughtn't.  But,  somehow,  I  can't  help  it  ... 
I  can't  help  it.  .  .  ." 

She  spoke  to  herself  rather  than  to  him.  The  words  fell 
from  her  lips  involuntarily,  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream. 

"You  are  so  far  upon  the  road  that  last  night  Edward 
and  I  willed  it  together  that  you  should  go  to  the  end  of 
your  journey.  We  both  feel,  somehow,  that  you  must  .  .  . 
you  must  .  .  .  you  must!" 

Again  the  Sailor  wanted  to  cry  out  as  he  looked  at  her. 
He  thought  he  could  see  the  tears  leap  to  her  eyes.  But 
that  may  have  been  because  they  had  leaped  to  his  own. 

He  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  He  dare  not  continue 
to  look  at  her. 

"What  a  life  you  must  have  had !" 

It  was  the  first  time  that  note  had  been  on  the  lips  of 
Athena.  The  sound  of  it  was  more  than  music,  it  was 
sorcery. 

"You  must  have  had  a  wonderful  life.  And  I  suppose 
in  some  ways  .  .  ."  The  beautiful  voice  sank  until  it  could 
396 


THE  SAILOR 

not  be  heard,  and  then  rose  a  little.  "In  some  ways,  it  must 
have  been  .  .  .  rather  terrible." 

He  did  not  speak  nor  did  he  look  at  her.  But  had  he  been 
a  strong  man  armed,  he  would  have  fled  that  magician- 
haunted  garden.  He  would  have  left  her  then,  he  would 
never  have  looked  on  her  again. 

"...  Rather  terrible."  In  an  odd  crescendo  those  words 
fell  again  from  the  lips  of  Athena.  "Edward  thinks  so.  But 
it's  an  impertinence,  isn't  it?  Except  that  some  lives  are 
the  property  of  others  ...  of  the  race.  You  are  not  of- 
fended?" 

"No,"  he  said.  And  then  feeling  that  it  might  have  the 
sound  of  yes,  he  gathered  defiantly  all  that  remained  of  his 
will.  "My  life  has  not  been  at  all  like  what  you  and  Mr. 
Ambrose  think.  It  has  been  just  hell." 

"That  is  exactly  what  we  imagined  it  had  been,"  said 
Athena,  with  divine  simplicity.  "And  perhaps  that  is  why" 
— her  eyes  were  strangely  magnetic — "Edward  and  I  have 
willed  it  that  your  life  to  come  .  .  ." 

A  surge  of  wild  blood  suddenly  darkened  the  wonderful 
lamp  of  Aladdin  in  the  right-hand  corner  of  his  brain. 

".  .  .  shall  be  crowned  with  more  than  thorns." 

She  seemed  almost  to  shiver. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  suddenly  applying  the 
curb  of  a  powerful  will.  "It  is  impertinence.  But  there  is 
always  something  about  this  old  garden  which  seems  to  carry 
one  beyond  oneself.  It  was  wrong  to  come." 

"Don't  say  that.  .  .  ."  The  Sailor  hardly  knew  that  he 
was  speaking.  "We  are  running  a  risk  ...  but  ...  but 
it's  worth  it.  Let  us  sit  on  that  seat  a  minute.  Shall  we?" 

"Yes,  and  wait  for  Silvia."  She  was  using  the  curb  with 
a  force  that  was  almost  brutal,  as  many  a  Pridmore  and 
many  a  Colthurst  had  used  it  before  her. 

The  Sailor  was  shattered.  But  new  strength  had  come  to 
397 


THE  SAILOR 

Athena.  All  the  jealous,  inherited  forces  of  her  being  had 
rallied  to  the  call  of  her  distress. 

"By  the  way."  It  was  not  Athena  who  was  speaking 
now,  but  Miss  Pridmore,  whose  local  habitation  was  Queen 
Street,  Mayfair.  "I  nearly  forgot  to  tell  you" — it  was  a 
clear  note  of  gaiety — "a  great  event  has  happened.  You 
shall  have  one  guess." 

There  was  not  so  much  as  half  a  guess  in  the  sailorman. 

"There's  news  of  Klondyke.  My  mother  had  a  letter 
from  him  this  morning.  It's  his  first  word  for  nearly  a 
year.  He  sent  a  postcard  from  Queenstown  to  say  he  will 
be  home  tomorrow,  and  that  I  must  clean  out  of  his  own 
particular  bedroom.  Whenever  he  turns  up  and  wherever  he 
comes  from,  I  have  always  to  do  that  at  a  moment's  notice." 

"Where's  he  been  this  time?"  asked  the  Sailor. 

"Round  the  whole  wide  world,  I  believe." 

"Working  his  passage?" 

"Very  likely.  As  soon  as  he  arrives,  you  will  have  to 
come  and  see  him.  We  are  going  to  keep  you  as  a  surprise. 
Your  meeting  will  be  great  fun,  and  you  are  to  promise  that 
Silvia  and  I  will  be  allowed  to  see  it.  And  you  are  to  behave 
as  if  you  were  aboard  the  brigantine  Excelsior — it  will  always 
be  the  brigantine  Excelsior  to  me — and  greet  him  in  good 
round  terms  of  the  sea.  Now  promise,  please  .  .  .  and,  of 
course,  no  one  will  mind  if  you  swear.  It  will  hardly  be  as 
bad  as  Uncle  George  in  a  temper." 

XIV 

HERE  you  are."     It  was  the  gay  voice  of  the  re- 
turning Silvia.    "So  sorry  I've  been  so  long.    But 
I've  had  to  hunt  for  you.    One  might  have  known 
you  would  choose  the  coolest  and  quietest  spot  in  the  whole 
garden." 

398        . 


THE  SAILOR 

As  the  sailorman  was  handing  them  into  the  car,  Silvia 
said: 

"By  the  way,  have  you  remembered  to  tell  Mr.  Harper 
about  Klondyke?" 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  Mary. 

"It  will  be  priceless  to  see  you  and  Klondyke  meet,"  said 
Silvia.  "We  shall  not  say  a  word  about  you.  You  are  to 
be  kept  a  secret.  You  have  just  got  to  come  and  be  sprung 
on  him,  and  then  you've  got  to  tell  him  to  stand  by  and  go 
about  like  the  sailormen  in  Stevenson." 

Henry  Harper  tried  very  hard  to  laugh.  It  was  so  clearly 
expected  of  him.  But  he  failed  rather  lamentably. 

"I  don't  suppose  he'll  remember  me,"  was  all  he  could 
say.  "It's  years  and  years  since  we  met.  I  was  only  half- 
grown  and  half-baked  in  those  days." 

"Of  course,  he'll  remember  you,"  said  Silvia,  "if  you 
really  sailed  round  the  world  together  before  the  mast.  But 
you  will  let  us  hear  you  talk  ?  And  it  must  be  pure  brigantine 
Excelsior,  mustn't  it,  Mary?" 

"He's  already  promised." 

In  the  Sailor's  opinion,  this  was  not  strictly  true ;  at  least 
he  had  no  recollection  of  having  gone  so  far  as  to  make  a 
promise.  He  could  hardly  have  been  such  a  fool.  Mary,  in 
|her  enthusiasm,  was  taking  a  little  too  much  for  granted. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  desperately,  "but  I  don't 
remember  having  said  so." 

"Oh,  but  you  did,  surely,  as  we  sat  under  the  tree." 

"No  hedging  now,"  said  Silvia,  with  merry  severity.  "It 
will  be  splendid.  And  the  Prince  wants  to  be  in  at  it." 

"I  don't  think  we  can  have  Otto,"  said  Mary. 

"But  I've  promised  him,  my  dear.  It's  all  arranged.  Mr. 
Harper  is  to  come  to  dinner.  And  not  a  word  is  to  be 
said  to  Klondyke." 

"I  dare  say  Mr.  Harper  won't  want  to  come  to  dinner  ?" 
399 


THE  SAILOR 

Mary  looked  quizzically  across  at  the  sailorman  through  the 
dim  light  of  a  car  interior  passing  under  a  Hammersmith 
archway.  "One  dinner  per  annum  with  the  famille  Prid- 
more  will  be  quite  enough  for  him,  I  expect." 

"That  cuts  off  his  retreat,  anyway,"  said  Silvia.  "And 
I  think,  as  the  Prince  is  going  to  be  there,  it  will  only  be 
fair  to  have  Edward  Ambrose.  Of  course,  Mr.  Harper,  you 
fully  realize  what  you  have  to  do.  To  begin  with,  you  enter 
with  a  nautical  roll,  give  the  slack  of  your  trousers  a  hitch, 
and  as  soon  as  you  see  Klondyke,  who,  I  dare  say,  will  be 
smoking  a  foul  pipe  and  reading  the  Pink  \Jn,  you  will  strike 
your  hand  on  your  knee  and  shout  at  the  top  of  your  voice, 
'What  ho,  my  hearty!'" 

"How  absurd  you  are!"  said  Mary,  with  a  rather  wry 
smile.  She  had  just  caught  the  look  on  the  Sailor's  face. 

"Well,  my  dear,  that's  the  program,  as  the  Prince  and  I 
have  arranged  it." 

Henry  Harper  was  literally  forced  into  a  promise  to  dine 
in  Queen  Street  on  an  appointed  day  in  order  to  meet  Klon- 
dyke. There  was  really  no  escape.  It  would  have  been  an 
act  of  sheer  ungraciousness  to  have  held  out.  Besides,  when 
all  was  said,  the  Sailor  wanted  very  much  to  see  his  hero. 

Nevertheless,  grave  searchings  of  heart  awaited  him  now. 
His  sane  moments  told  him — alas!  those  in  which  he  could 
look  dispassionately  upon  his  predicament  seemed  to  be  few — 
that  a  wide  gulf  was  fixed  between  these  people  and  himself. 
In  all  essentials  they  were  as  wide  asunder  as  the  poles. 
Their  place  in  the  scheme  of  things  was  fixed,  they  moved 
in  a  definite  orbit,  while  at  the  best  of  it  he  was  a  mere 
adventurer,  a  waif  of  the  streets  whom  Klondyke  had  first 
taught  to  read  and  write. 

The  fact  itself  was  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  he  knew 
that.  It  was  no 'fault  of  his  that  life  had  never  given  him 
a  chance.  But  a  new  and  growing  sensitiveness  had  come 
400 


THE  SAILOR 

upon  him,  which  somehow  made  that  knowledge  hard  to 
bear.  He  did  not  wish  to  convey  an  impression  of  being 
other  than  he  was,  but  he  knew  it  would  be  difficult  to  meet 
Klondyke  now. 

This,  however,  was  weakness,  and  he  determined  to  lay  it 
aside.  Such  feelings  were  unworthy  of  Klondyke  and  of 
himself.  The  price  to  be  paid  might  be  heavy — he  somehow 
knew  that  far  more  was  at  stake  than  he  dared  think — but 
let  the  cost  be  what  it  might,  he  must  not  be  afraid  to  meet 
his  friend. 

All  too  soon,  the  evening  came  when  he  was  due  at  Queen 
Street.  He  arrayed  himself  with  a  care  almost  cynical  in 
his  new  and  well  cut  clothes,  brushed  his  hair  very  thor- 
oughly, and  took  great  pains  over  the  set  of  his  tie.  Then 
giving  himself  doggedly  to  a  task  from  which  there  was  no 
escape,  he  managed  to  arrive  in  Queen  Street  on  the  stroke  of 
the  hour  of  eight. 

An  atmosphere  of  veiled  amusement  seemed  to  envelop 
him  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  drawing-room,  but  the  hero  was 
not  there.  The  Sailor  was  informed  by  Silvia  in  a  gay 
aside  that  Klondyke  always  made  a  practice  of  being  abso- 
lutely last  in  any  boiled-shirted  assembly.  The  Prince,  how- 
ever, was  on  the  hearthrug,  wearing  his  usual  air  of  calm 
proprietorship,  and  with  an  expression  of  countenance  even 
more  quizzical  than  usual.  Edward  Ambrose  was  also  there, 
looking  a  trifle  perplexed  and  a  little  anxious.  Lady  Prid- 
more  in  white  satin  and  really  beautiful  black  lace  had  that 
air  of  regal  composure  she  was  never  without,  but  Mary  and 
Silvia  were  consumed  with  frank  amusement. 

"Klondyke  is  still  struggling,"  said  Silvia,  "but  he  won't 
be  long." 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  hero  and  his  boiled  shirt  were 
a  standing  jest  in  the  family  circle.  He  was  really  a  figure 
of  legend.  Incredible  stories  were  told  of  him,  all  of  which 
401 


THE  SAILOR 

had  the  merit  of  being  based  upon  truth.  He  would  have 
been  a  source  of  pure  joy  for  the  things  he  had  done  could 
he  ever  have  been  forgiven  for  the  things  he  hadn't  done. 

Dinner  had  been  announced  a  full  five  minutes,  and  a 
frown  was  slowly  submerging  the  Prince,  when  Klondyke 
sauntered  in,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  looking  extremely 
brown  and  soigne  and  altogether  handsome.  By  some  mir- 
acle he  was  even  better  turned  out  than  his  younger  brother. 

"Here  he  is!"  cried  Silvia. 

But  the  Sailor  had  no  need  to  be  told  it  was  he.  This  was 
a  Klondyke  he  had  never  known  and  hardly  guessed  at,  but 
after  a  long  and  miraculous  nine  years  he  was  again  to  grasp 
his  hand.  Somehow,  at  the  sight  of  that  gay  and  handsome 
face,  the  room  and  the  people  in  it  passed  away.  He  could 
only  think  of  Klondyke  on  the  quay  at  Honolulu  starting  to 
walk  across  Asia,  and  here  was  his  hero  brown  as  a  chestnut 
and  splendidly  fit  and  cheerful. 

Silvia,  with  a  display  of  facetiousness,  introduced  Mr. 
Harper,  the  famous  author,  while  the  others,  amused  yet 
strangely  serious,  watched  their  greeting.  The  Sailor  came 
forward  shyly,  once  again  the  ship's  boy  of  the  Margaret 
Carey.  But  in  his  eyes  was  a  look  which  the  eyes  of  that 
boy  had  never  known. 

The  first  thing  Klondyke  did  was  to  take  his  hands  out 
of  his  pockets.  He  then  stood  gazing  in  sheer  astonishment. 

"Why  .  .  .  why,  Sailor!" 

For  the  moment,  that  was  all. 

The  Sailor  said  nothing,  but  blind  to  all  things  else,  stood 
looking  at  his  friend.  It  was  the  old  note  of  the  good  com- 
rade his  ears  had  cherished  a  long  nine  years.  Yes,  this  was 
Klondyke  right  enough. 

The  hero  was%still  gazing  at  him  in  sheer  astonishment. 
He  was  taking  him  in  in  detail :  the  well  cut  clothes,  the  air 
of  neatness,  order,  and  well-being;.  And  then  a  powerful  fist 
402 


THE  SAILOR 

had  come  out  square  to  meet  that  of  Henry  Harper.    But  not 
a  word  passed. 

It  was  rather  tame,  perhaps,  for  the  lookers-on.  It  was 
part  of  the  Klondyke  tradition  never  to  take  him  seriously. 
An  utterly  comic  greeting  had  been  expected  between  these 
two  who  had  sailed  before  the  mast,  a  greeting  absurdly 
j  nautical,  immensely  grotesque.  It  seemed  odd  that  there 
should  have  been  nothing  of  this  kind  in  it. 

Those  two  commonplace  words  of  Klondyke's  were  all 
that  passed  between  them — before  they  went  down  to  dinner, 
at  any  rate.  And  throughout  the  meal,  the  eyes  of  the  two 
sailormen  were  continually  straying  to  each  other  to  the 
exclusion  of  everything  else.  Somehow,  to  Henry  Harper 
it  was  like  a  fantastic  dream  that  he  should  be  seated  in 
Elysium  with  the  goddess  Athena  by  his  side  and  the  im- 
mortal Klondyke  looking  at  him  continually  from  the  head 
of  the  table. 

All  through  dinner,  Klondyke  was  unable  to  overcome  a 
feeling  of  astonishment  that  Henry  Harper  should  be  sitting 
there.  He  couldn't  help  listening  to  all  that  he  said,  he 
couldn't  help  watching  all  that  he  did.  It  was  amazing  to 
hear  him  talk  to  Mary  and  his  mother  about  books  and  plays 
and  to  watch  his  bearing,  which  was  that  of  a  man  well 
used  to  dining  out.  To  be  sure,  Klondyke  was  not  a  close 
observer,  but  as  far  as  he  could  see  there  was  not  a  single 
mistake  in  anything  Sailor  said  or  did,  yet  nine  years  ago, 
when  he  left  him  in  tears  on  the  quay  at  Honolulu,  he  was 
just  a  waif  from  the  gutter  who  could  neither  write  nor 
read. 

When  the  women  had  returned  to  the  drawing-room  and 
Klondyke  and  Edward  Ambrose  and  the  Prince  sat  smoking 
their^cigars,  while  Henry  Harper  was  content  with  his  usual 
cigarette,  it  suddenly  grew  clear  to  one  of  the  four  that 
these  two  sailormen  very  much  desired  to  be  left  together. 
403 


THE  SAILOR 

"Prince,"  said  Edward  Ambrose,  "let  us  go  and  talk 
Shakespeare  and  the  musical  glasses." 

As  soon  as  the  door  had  closed  Klondyke  said:  "Now, 
Sailor,  you  must  have  a  little  of  this  brandy.  No  refusal." 
He  filled  two  liqueur  glasses  with  the  fastidious  care  of  one 
who  knew  the  value  of  this  magic  potion.  "Sailor" — Klon- 
dyke had  raised  his  own  glass  and  was  looking  at  him  as  of 
old,  with  eyes  that  had  traversed  all  the  oceans  of  the  world 
as  well  as  all  its  continents — "I'm  very  glad  to  see  you 
here." 

As  soon  as  the  glass  touched  the  lips  of  Henry  Harper, 
something  within  him  seemed  to  beat  thickly,  and  then  an 
odd  sort  of  phrase  began  to  roll  through  his  brain.  Somehow 
it  brought  with  it  all  the  sights  and  the  sounds  and  the  odors 
of  the  Margaret  Carey.  It  was  a  phrase  he  had  once  heard 
a  Yank  make  use  of  in  the  forecastle  of  that  hell-ship,  and 
it  was  to  the  effect  that  Klondyke  was  a  white  man  from 
way  back. 

That  was  quite  true.  Klondyke  was  a  white  man  from 
way  back.  Not  that  Sailor  had  ever  doubted  it  for  a 
moment. 


XV 


TO  the  disappointment  of  the  drawing-room,  Klondyke 
and  the  sailorman  sat  a  long  time  together.  They 
had  much  to  say  to  one  another. 

It  was  Klondyke,  however,  who  did  most  of  the  talking. 

He  had  not  changed  in  the  least,  and  he  was  still  the  hero 

of  old,  yet  the  Sailor  felt  very  shy  and  embarrassed  at  first. 

But  after  a  while,  the  magic  of  the  old  intercourse  returned, 

and  Henry  Harper  was  able  to  unlock  a  little  of  his  heart. 

"Life  is  queer,"  said  Klondyke.     "And  the  more  you  see 

of  it,  the  queerer  it  seems.    Take  me.    If  I  had  been  born 

404 


THE  SAILOR 

you,  I'd  have  been  as  happy  as  a  dead  bird  swabbing  the 
main  deck  and  shinning  up  the  futtock  shrouds  and  hauling 
in  the  tops'ls.  And  if  you  had  been  born  me,  you'd  have 
been  as  happy  as  a  dead  bird  going  great  guns  and  doing  all 
sorts  of  honor  to  the  family.  I  wanted  to  go  into  the  Navy, 
but  my  mother  and  the  old  governor  wouldn't  stand  for  it. 
It  must  be  diplomacy,  because  the  governor  had  influence,  and 
I  was  the  eldest  son  and  I  ought  to  make  use  of  it.  What  a 
job  you  would  have  made  of  that  billet!  And  how  you 
hated  the  Margaret  Carey.  It  was  hell  all  the  time, 
wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Sailor,  "just  hell." 

"Still,  it  helped  you  to  find  yourself." 

"Yes — if  I  was  worth  finding." 

"Of  course  you  were." 

"Anyhow,  I  took  the  advice  you  gave  me,"  said  the 
Sailor,  with  his  odd  simplicity. 

"You'd  have  given  it  yourself  in  the  end  without  any 
help  of  mine.  But  it's  strange  that  when  I  read  your  book 
I  never  guessed  that  you  were  the  author,  and  that  you  were 
writing  about  our  old  coffin  ship  and  the  Old  Man  and 
the  mate  .  .  .  what  was  his  name  ?" 

"Mr.  Thompson." 

"Since  deceased,  I  hear." 

"Yes." 

"One  always  felt  he  was  a  proper  cutthroat." 

"I'd  not  be  sitting  here  now,  but  for  Mr.  Thompson. 
I'll  tell  you." 

Klondyke's  eyes  began  to  shine. 

In  a  few  words  and  very  simply,  the  Sailor  told  the  story 
of  the  Island  of  San  Pedro. 

"I've  sometimes  thought  since,"  was  his  conclusion,  "that 
they  were  just  guying  me,  knowing  they  could  frighten  me 
out  of  my  wits." 

405 


THE  SAILOR 

"Of  course  they  were,"  said  Klondyke.  "That's  human 
nature.  But  you  had  rotten  luck  ever  to  come  to  sea.  How- 
ever, you  are  in  smooth  waters  now.  You'll  never  have  to 
face  the  high  seas  again,  my  boy." 

"I  don't  know  that,"  said  the  Sailor,  with  a  sudden  sick- 
ness of  the  heart. 

"No  fear.  The  wicket's  going  to  roll  out  plumb.  You 
are  the  most  wonderful  chap  I  have  ever  met.  Now  I  sup- 
pose we  had  better  join  the  others." 

They  went  upstairs  and  had  a  gay  reception. 

"I  wish  you  would  dance  a  hornpipe  or  something,"  said 
Silvia,  "or  cross  talk  as  they  did  on  the  brigantine  Excelsior, 
else  we  shall  none  of  us  believe  that  either  of  you  have  ever 
been  before  the  mast  at  all." 

"I  tell  you,  Sailor,  what  we  might  do,"  said  Klondyke. 
"If  we  can  remember  the  words,  we  might  give  'em  that  old 
chantey  that  was  always  so  useful  round  the  Horn.  How 
does  it  go?" 

Klondyke  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  began  to  pick  out 
the  notes  with  one  finger  of  each  hand. 

"  'Away  for  Rio!'  I'll  sing  the  solo,  if  I  can  remember 
it,  and  you  sing  the  chorus,  Sailor!" 

Such  stern  protests  were  raised  by  those  who  knew  the 
capacity  of  Klondyke's  lung  power  that  very  reluctantly  he 
gave  up  this  project,  yet  the  very  indifferent  backing  of  his 
shipmate  may  have  carried  more  weight  with  him  than  the 
pressure  of  public  opinion. 

When  Edward  Ambrose  and  the  Sailor  had  gone  their 
ways  and  the  others  apparently  had  gone  to  bed,  Klondyke 
doffed  the  coat  of  civilization  in  favor  of  a  very  faded  and 
generally  disreputable  Ramblers'  blazer,  lit  his  pipe,  and 
then,  in  the  most  comfortable  chair  he  could  find,  began 
to  read  again  "The  Adventures  of  Dick  Smith  on  the  High 
Seas." 

406 


THE  SAILOR 

"Yes,  he's  a  wonderful  chap,"  he  kept  muttering  at  in- 
tervals. After  he  had  been  moved  to  this  observation  several 
times,  he  was  interrupted  by  the  reappearance  of  the  Prince, 
who  looked  uncommonly  serious,  in  an  elaborate  quilted 
silk  smoking  jacket  that  he  affected  in  his  postprandial 
hours. 

"This  chap  Harper,"  suddenly  opened  the  Prince.  "I 
want  to  have  a  word  with  you  about  him." 

The  look  on  the  face  of  the  elder  and  less  reputable  brother 
seemed  pretty  clearly  to  show  that  this  desire  was  not  shared. 
But  duty  had  to  be  done,  and  the  Prince  seated  himself 
doggedly  on  the  high  fender,  his  back  to  the  fire. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "what  you  know  about  this  chap 
Harper." 

Somehow,  Klondyke  hardly  felt  inclined.  For  one  thing, 
the  slow  but  sure  growth  of  the  Foreign  Office  manner, 
which  he  was  able  to  detect  in  his  younger  brother  every 
time  he  returned  from  his  wanderings,  always  seemed  to 
rattle  him  a  bit.  Of  course  Otto  was  a  first-rate  chap  ac- 
cording to  his  lights;  still,  Klondyke  was  the  elder,  and  if 
questions  must  be  asked  he  did  not  feel  bound  to  answer 
them. 

A  mild  but  concentrated  gaze  conveyed  as  much. 

"Ted  Ambrose  brought  him  here,"  said  the  Prince,  with 
1  a  nice  feeling  for  these  nuances.  "A  good  chap,  I  dare 
say  .  .  .  quite  a  good  chap  .  .  .  but  .  .  ." 

The  mild  gaze  was  still  concentrated,  but  if  possible  more 
limpid. 

".  .  .  but  somehow  a  little  .  .  .  Mother  thinks  so,  any- 
way." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  dare  say,"  said  Klondyke,  with  a  casualness 
that  rather  annoyed  the  Prince. 

"Fact  is  ...  I  might  as  well  tell  you  .  .  ."  The  tone 
of  the  Prince  implied  nothing  less  than  a  taking  of  the  bull 
407 


THE  SAILOR 

by  the  horns.     "We  all  think  Mary  is  inclined  to  ... 
to  .  .  ." 

With  nice  deliberation,  Klondyke  laid  "The  Adventures 
of  Dick  Smith"  on  the  hearthrug. 

"Mother  thinks,"  said  the  Prince  plaintively,  after  a  pause, 
"it  would  be  better  if  he  didn't  come  to  the  house  so  much." 

Klondyke  frowned  heavily  and  tapped  his  pipe  on  a  fire- 
dog. 

"How  long's  he  been  coming  here?"  he  asked. 

"Some  little  time  now." 

Klondyke  still  frowned. 

"Mother  thinks,"  said  the  plaintive  Prince,  "that  Mary 
sees  far  too  much  of  him.  And  I  rather  agree  with  her." 

"Why?"  asked  Klondyke  stolidly. 

"Why?"  repeated  his  younger  brother,  looking  at  him 
with  wary  amazement.  "Well,  to  start  with,  he  ain't  a 
gentleman." 

Klondyke  tapped  his  pipe  again. 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  said  the  Prince,  "we  all  think 
she  is  making  a  perfect  idiot  of  herself." 

"What's  Ted  Ambrose  think?" 

"I've  not  asked  him,  but  I  believe  mother  has  mentioned 
the  matter." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"She  thought  he  seemed  a  good  deal  worried." 

Klondyke's  frown  had  assumed  terrific  dimensions. 

"She's  old  enough  to  take  care  of  herself,  anyway,"  he 
said,  beginning  abruptly  to  refill  a  foul  briar  from  a  small 
tin  box  that  he  unexpectedly  evolved  from  the  pocket  of  his 
trousers. 

"That's  hardly  the  point,  is  it?"  said  the  Prince,  with  a 
deference  he  didn't  feel. 

"What  is  the  point?"  asked  Klondyke,  striking  a  wooden 
match  on  the  sole  of  his  shoe. 
408 


THE  SAILOR 

"Mother  has  mentioned  the  matter  to  Uncle  George,  and 
he  thinks  the  chap  ought  not  to  come  here." 

"Oh,  that's  rot,"  said  Klondyke  coolly.  "That's  like  the 
old  fool." 

"I'm  afraid  I  agree  .  .  .  with  Uncle  George,  I  mean 
.  .  .  and  so  does  Silvia." 

"What's  Ted  Ambrose  think  about  it?  He  generally 
knows  the  lie  of  a  country." 

"He'd  give  no  opinion  to  mother.  But  he  was  certainly 
worried." 

Klondyke  resumed  his  frown.  He  felt  rather  at  sea.  He 
was,  in  spite  of  birth  and  training,  a  man  of  primal  instincts ; 
he  looked  at  things  in  an  elemental  way.  Either  a  man  was 
a  good  chap  or  he  was  not.  If  he  was  a  good  chap,  no  matter 
where  he  may  have  started  from  in  the  race  of  life,  he  was 
fitted  by  nature  to  marry  his  sister.  If  he  was  not  a  good 
chap,  no  matter  what  else  he  was  or  might  be,  he  didn't 
count  anyway. 

"You  see" — the  plaintive  voice  of  the  Prince  broke  in 
upon  Klondyke's  unsubtle  analysis  of  the  situation — "no  one 
knows  anything  about  him.  Ambrose  sprang  him  on  us  from 
nowhere,  as  you  might  say.  Of  course,  he's  a  man  with  a 
sort  of  reputation  ...  in  his  own  line  .  .  .  but  he's  not 
one  of  us  ...  and  it  wouldn't  have  so  much  mattered  if  he 
had  been  a  gentleman." 

"There  I  don't  altogether  agree,"  said  Klondyke  with  con- 
viction, but  without  vehemence.  "I  always  think  with  Ted 
Ambrose  on  that  point.  Gentlemen  are  not  made.  They 
are  born,  like  poets  and  cricketers." 

"That's  rot,"  said  the  Prince,  with  a  sudden  deepening 
of  his  tone  of  courtesy  which  made  it  seem  excessive.  "You 
are  mixing,  I  think — aren't  you — two  entirely  different 
things?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Klondyke.  "Harper  is  not 
409 


THE  SAILOR 

a  chap  who  would  ever  go  back  on  a  pal,  and  that's  all  that 
matters." 

The  Prince  suddenly  became  so  deeply  angry  that  he  de- 
cided to  go  to  bed  at  once,  and  accordingly  did  so. 

XVI 

FOR  a  number  of  people  there  followed  anxious  days. 
Mary's  friends  made  no  secret  of  their  belief  that 
she  was  losing  her  head.    They  were  much  troubled. 
She  was  a  universal  favorite,  one  of  those  charming  people 
who  seem  to  have  an  almost  poetic  faculty  of  common  sense. 
But  she  was  thought  to  be  far  too  wise  ever  to  be  carried 
away  by  anything. 

The  Pridmores,  at  heait,  were  conventional.  They  were 
abreast  of  the  times,  were  lively  and  intelligent,  and  could  be 
at  ease  in  Bohemia,  but  up  till  now  Bohemia  had  known  the 
deference  due  to  Queen  Street,  Mayfair. 

Lady  Pridmore  had  always  thought — and  Silvia,  Uncle 
George,  and  the  Prince  had  agreed  with  her — that  Mary  was 
predestined  for  Edward  Ambrose.  For  one  thing,  Edward, 
when  his  father  died,  would  be  very  well  off — not  that  the 
Pridmores  were  in  the  least  mercenary.  They  simply  knew 
what  money  means  to  such  a  being  as  man  in  such  a  world 
as  the  present.  Then  Edward  was  liked  by  them  all.  It 
had  long  been  a  mystery  why  Mary  had  not  married  him. 
He  was  always  her  faithful  cavalier,  and  a  rather  exceptional 
man.  And  now  she  had  suddenly  gone  off  at  half  cock,  as 
Uncle  George  expressed  it. 

During  this  period,  tribulation  was  rife  at  other  places 
also.  Edward  Ambrose  was  in  no  enviable  frame  of  mind. 
The  woman  he  loved  and  the  friend  he  served  were  cutting 
deeply  into  his  life.  But  of  one  thing  he  was  convinced — 
neither  of  them  realized  their  danger. 
410 


THE  SAILOR 

He  was  a  sufficient  judge  of  his  kind  to  know  that  Henry 
Harper  was  not  a  man  willfully  to  practice  deceit.  Ambrose 
was  aware  of  the  skeleton  in  the  cupboard.  It  was  ever 
present  to  his  mind.  And  his  position  was  rendered  painfully 
difficult  by  the  fact  that  he  was  under  a  pledge  not  to  reveal 
it.  The  root  of  the  matter,  as  far  as  Harper  was  concerned, 
was  that  his  inexperience  of  the  world  might  cause  him  to 
drift  into  a  relationship  which  he  did  not  intend  and  could 
not  foresee. 

Ambrose  was  tormented  by  a  desire  to  tell  Mary  Prid- 
more  all  he  knew.  Surely  it  was  his  duty.  Her  ignorance 
of  certain  facts,  which  Harper  most  unwisely  withheld,  was 
a  very  real  and  grave  danger.  Ambrose  realized  how  quickly 
such  a  woman,  almost  unknown  to  herself,  could  sweep  a 
man  off  his  feet.  He  also  felt  that  Henry  Harper,  with 
his  atmosphere  of  mystery,  and  his  remarkable  powers  which 
needed  the  help  of  a  strong  and  stable  intelligence, 
might  make  an  irresistible  appeal  to  a  girl  like  Mary 
Pridmore. 

Ambrose  felt  that  he  alone  knew  the  peril  which  beset 
his  friends.  Yet  he  could  not  warn  one  without  treason  to 
the  other.  His  regard  for  both  seemed  to  preclude  all  inter- 
ference. He  had  a  sincere  affection  for  a  brave-spirited  man ; 
for  Mary  he  had  long  cherished  something  more  than  affec- 
tion; yet  in  circumstances  such  as  these  an  untimely  word 
might  do  mischief  untold. 

For  the  present,  therefore,  he  had  better  remain  silent. 

In- the  meantime,  the  Sailor  had  descended  once  more  into 
the  pit.  He  had  been  cast  again,  by  that  grim  destiny  which 
had  never  failed  to  dog  him  from  the  outset  of  his  life,  into 
the  vortex  of  overmastering  forces.  He  felt  the  time  was 
near  when  without  the  help  of  Mary  Pridmore  he  could  not 
keep  on. 

One  day,  worn  out  with  anxiety,  he  called  at  Spring 
3T  411 


THE  SAILOR 

Gardens  and  had  an  interview  with  Mr.  Daniel  Mortimer. 
That  gentleman  could  give  little  solace.  The  woman  drew 
her  allowance  every  week.  There  was  reason  to  believe  that 
she  had  bad  bouts  of  drinking,  but  Mr.  Mortimer  was  still 
unable  to  advise  a  petition  for  divorce.  The  whole  matter 
was  full  of  difficulty,  there  was  the  question  of  expense,  also 
it  would  be  wise  not  to  ignore  the  consequences  to  a  rising 
reputation. 

Henry  Harper  felt  the  force  of  this  reasoning.  It  was  no 
use  attempting  to  gainsay  the  view  of  an  expert  in  the  law. 
Moreover,  he  had  a  clear  knowledge  of  Mary's  opinion 
on  the  subject  of  divorce.  In  any  event  she  would  never 
consent  to  marry  him. 

The  young  man  took  leave  of  the  kindly  and  wise  Mr. 
Mortimer,  and  with  despair  in  his  heart  walked  slowly  back 
to  Brinkworth  Street.  Every  yard  of  the  way  he  wondered 
what  he  should  do  now.  He  felt  like  an  animal  caught 
in  a  trap.  For  more  than  a  week  he  had  not  been  able  to 
think  of  his  work. 

He  had  not  seen  Mary  for  some  days.  He  was  trying 
to  keep  her  out  of  his  thoughts.  But  the  more  he  denied 
himself  the  sight  of  her,  the  less  power  he  had  to  fight  the 
demon  in  whose  grip  he  was  now  held.  He  was  unable  to 
work,  he  slept  little,  he  had  no  appetite  for  food;  for  the 
most  part,  he  could  only  walk  up  and  down  this  wonderful 
and  terrible  city  of  London  which  had  now  begun  to  appall 
him. 

He  had  outgrown  his  present  strength.  And,  as  only 
a  woman  can,  she  realized  where  and  how  she  might  help 
him.  This  deep-sea  mariner  should  not  call  to  her  in  vain. 
Athena,  in  her  high  maternal  sanity,  was  ready  to  yield 
all. 

Three  days  ago,  when  he  had  seen  her  last,  and  had  sat 
with  her  in  the  shade  of  the  park,  her  eyes,  her  voice  had 
412 


THE  SAILOR 

told  him  that.  They  had  told  him  that,  even  when  it  had  not 
been  his  to  ask.  It  was  this  implicit  declaration  which  had 
so  gravely  frightened  him.  The  truth  struck  home  that  he 
was  not  treading  the  path  of  honor. 

By  the  time  he  had  returned  to  Brinkworth  Street,  he 
knew  the  necessity  of  a  definite  course  of  action.  It  was 
madness  to  go  on  in  their  present  way.  They  had  come  to 
mean  too  much  to  each  other;  besides,  a  perception  keenly 
sensitive  had  told  him  that  her  friends  were  beginning  to 
regard  him  with  a  tacit  hostility.  It  had  not  found  expres- 
sion in  word  or  deed ;  he  was  always  received  with  kindness ; 
but  except  on  the  part  of  Klondyke,  there  was  no  real  warmth 
of  sympathy. 

Circumstances  had  placed  him  in  a  terribly  false  position^ 
and  he  must  be  man  enough  to  break  his  fetters.  He  knew 
that  there  was  still  one  way  of  doing  that.  The  course  was 
extreme,  but  honor  demanded  it. 

He  had  been  invited  to  tea  the  next  day  at  the  house  of  a 
friend  they  had  in  common.  It  was  to  be  a  large  party, 
and  he  knew  that  if  he  carried  out  his  original  intention  of 
going,  he  would  see  Mary  and  no  doubt  have  a  chance 
of  talking  to  her.  Much  painful  reflection  that  evening 
finally  decided  him.  He  would  go  prepared  to  tell  every- 
thing. It  must  be  their  last  meeting,  for  she  would 
surely  see  how  hopeless  was  the  intimacy  into  which  they 
had  drifted. 

Having  quite  definitely  made  up  his  mind,  he  was  able  to 
snatch  a  little  more  sleep  that  night  than  for  some  weeks 
past.  Moreover,  he  got  up  the  next  day  with  his  resolution 
strong  upon  him.  Let  the  cost  be  what  it  might,  he  must 
accept  a  bitter  and  humiliating  situation. 

At  half  past  four  that  afternoon  he  was  one  of  many  more 
or  less  distinguished  persons  filling  the  spacious  rooms  of  a 
house  in  a  fashionable  square.  The  hostess,  a  quick-witted 
413 


THE  SAILOR 

adroit  woman,  was  very  much  a  friend  of  both.  She  had 
a  real  regard  for  Mary,  also  a  genuine  weakness  for  a  man 
of  genius. 

Athena  was  there  already  when  the  Sailor  arrived.  And 
as  she  sat  on  a  distant  sofa,  nursing  her  teacup,  with  several 
members  of  her  court  around  her,  the  young  man  was  struck 
yet  again,  as  he  always  was,  by  her  look  of  vital  power. 
She  had  in  a  very  high  degree  that  curious  air  of  distinction 
which  comes  of  an  old  race  and  seems  to  strike  from  a  dis- 
tance. The  features  were  neither  decisive  nor  regular, 
but  the  modeling  of  the  whole  face  and  the  poise  of  the 
head  no  artist  could  see  without  desiring  to  render  on 
canvas. 

The  Sailor  had  to  steel  his  will.  The  thought  was  almost 
intolerable  that  at  one  blow  he  was  about  to  sever  his  friend- 
ship with  her.  She  was  so  strong  and  fine,  she  was  a  sacred 
part  of  his  life,  she  was  the  key  of  those  central  forces  that 
now  seemed  bent  on  his  destruction. 

Presently,  amid  the  slow  eddy  of  an  ever  changing  crowd 
they  came  together.  Her  greeting  was  of  a  peculiarly  simple 
friendliness.  She  seemed  grave,  with  something  almost  be- 
yond gravity.  There  was  a  shadow  upon  a  face  that  hardly 
seemed  to  have  known  one  in  all  its  years  of  shelter  and 
*vsecurity. 

"Is  there  anywhere  we  can  talk?"  he  managed  to  say 
after  a  little  while. 

She  rose  from  her  sofa  with  the  decision  he  had  always 
lacked. 

"Let  us  try  the  library,"  she  said. 

And  with  the  assured  skill  of  an  experienced  navigator 
of  social  waters,  she  led  him  there  and  found  it  empty. 


JHE  SAILOR 


XVII 

HENRY  HARPER'S  decision  had  been  taken  finally. 
But  as  soon  as  he  entered  this  large  and  dull  room, 
he  felt  the  chill  of  its  emptiness  in  an  almost  sym- 
bolical way.     It  was  what  his  whole  life  was  going  to  be, 
and  the  thought  nearly  wrung  a  groan  out  of  him. 

She  was  puzzled  by  a  certain  oddness  in  his  manner,  a 
feeling  which  of  late  had  been  growing  upon  her.  It  was 
hard  to  understand.  She  knew  his  need  of  help,  his  craving 
for  it,  yet  now  the  time  had  come  when  he  had  only  to  ask 
in  order  to  receive  it  he  seemed  at  the  mercy  of  a  painful 
indecision  which  had  the  power  to  wound. 

Here  and  now  a  subtle  withdrawal  of  the  highest  part  of 
himself  seemed  more  than  ever  apparent.  It  was  even  in  his 
face  this  afternoon,  in  the  wonderful  face  of  Ulysses  that  had 
all  the  oceans  of  the  world  in  it.  What  did  it  portend  ?  Was 
it  that  he  was  afraid? 

What  had  he  to  fear?  How  could  such  a  person  as  herself 
repel  him?  She  had  all  to  give  if  only  he  would  demand  it 
of  her. 

Of  that  he  must  be  aware.  The  haunted  eyes  of  the  sailor- 
man  too  clearly  proclaimed  his  knowledge. 

"How  is  'A  Master  Mariner'  ?"  she  asked,  in  order  to  end 
the  silence  which  had  intervened  as  soon  as  they  entered  the 
room. 

"It  doesn't  get  on,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  did  not  seem 
to  be  his  own. 

"I'm  very  sorry."     The  deep  note  was  sincerity  itself. 

"I  don't  know  why,"  said  the  Sailor,  "but  it's  too  much 
for  me  now." 

"Of  course,  it  is  all  immensely  difficult.    The  latter  part 
particularly.     Somehow,  one  always  felt  it  would  be." 
415 


THE  SAILOR 

"It's  not  that,"  said  the  Sailor.  "Not  the  difficulty,  I 
mean.  That  was  always  there,  and  I  was  never  afraid  of 
it.  But  I  think  I  am  losing  grip." 

She  looked  at  him,  a  little  disquieted.  There  was  a  note 
in  his  voice  she  heard  then  for  the  first  time. 

"That  must  not  be,"  she  said.    "There's  no  reason  for  it." 

"Ah,  you  don't  know.  I  begin  to  feel  now  that  I'll  never 
be  able  to  put  it  through." 

"Why  should  you  feel  that?  What  reason  can  you  have, 
a  man  of  your  wonderful  powers,  a  man  with  all  his  life 
before  him?" 

"I  just  haven't  the  strength,"  he  said  in  his  quaint  speech, 
"and  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

To  her  surprise,  to  her  horror  almost,  he  suddenly  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands.  Somehow,  the  sight  of  a  weakness 
so  palpable  in  a  thing  so  strong  and  fine  was  unnerving. 

"I'll  never  be  able  to  put  it  through  by  myself." 

As  she  stood  facing  him,  she  felt  the  truth  of  that. 

"Is  it  necessary?"  The  words  seemed  to  shape  them- 
selves in  despite  of  her. 

"Yes."  Involuntarily,  he  drew  away  from  her.  A  sure 
feminine  instinct  waited  for  the  words  that  should  follow. 
She  read  in  those  strange  eyes  that  he  must  now  speak.  She 
could  almost  feel,  as  she  stood  so  near  him,  a  slow  and  grim 
gathering  of  the  will.  She  could  almost  hear  the  surge  of 
speech  to  his  lips.  But  no  words  came,  and  the  moment 
passed. 

Now  that  he  had  to  strike  the  knife  into  his  heart,  it  could 
not  be  done.  It  was  not  cowardice,  it  was  not  a  failure  of 
the  will,  it  was  not  even  a  momentary  weakness  of  the  soul. 
He  was  in  the  grip  of  ineluctable  forces,  of  a  power  beyond 
himself.  As  he  stood  not  three  yards  from  her  with  the 
table  supporting  him.  his  whole  nature  seemed  wrenched  and 
shaken  to  the  roots  of  being. 

416 


THE  SAILOR 

She  couldn't,  help  pitying  him  profoundly.  There  was 
something  that  had  crept  into  his  eyes  which  harrowed  her. 
Poor  mariner!  For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  felt  a 
curious  sudden  tightening  of  the  throat.  She  could  have 
shrieked,  almost,  at  the  sight  of  this  tragic  pain  it  was  not  to 
be  hers  to  ease. 

A  moment  later,  she  had  regained  control. 

"You  must  keep  on,"  said  Athena.     "You  must  keep  on." 

But  he  knew  that  he  was  down,  and  that  the  ineluctable 
forces  were  killing  him. 

She  may  have  known  it,  too.  No  longer  able  to  bear  the 
look  upon  his  face,  she  drew  back,  an  intense  pity  striking 
her. 

Was  she  upon  the  verge  of  some  great  tragedy?  She  did 
not  dare  to  frame  the  question. 

"Mary."  .  .  .  She  awoke  to  the  sound  of  the  Sailor's 
voice  and  of  her  own  name  on  his  lips.  .  .  .  "I've  made  up 
my  mind  to — to  go  away  for  a  bit." 

In  the  midst  of  these  throes,  an  inspiration  had  come  to 
him.  It  was  no  more  than  a  miserable  subterfuge,  but  it 
was  all  he  could  do. 

"I  somehow  feel  I'm  on  the  rocks.  I  think  I'll  go  a 
voyage.  I'm  losing  myself.  I'll  perhaps  be  able  to  .  .  ." 

A  stifling  sense  of  pity  kept  her  silent. 

".  .  .  to  persuade  Klondyke  to  come  along  with  me." 

"I  wish  I  could  have  helped  you."  The  words  were 
wrung  from  her. 

"You  can't,"  he  said,  and  he  spoke  with  a  gust  of  passion 
as  one  half  maddened.  "No  one  can  help  me." 

She  saw  his  wildness,  and  somehow  her  strength  went  out 
to  him. 

"You  can't  think  what  I've  been  through,"  he  said,  with 
something  worse  than  rage  entering  his  voice. 

She  knew  she  couldn't  even  guess,  and  was  too  wise  to 
417 


THE  SAILOR 

try.  But  again  she  was  hurt  by  the  sight  of  a  suffering  it 
could  never  be  hers  to  heal. 

"Henry,"  she  said,  "I  would  like  you  always  to  feel 
and  always  to  remember  that  whatever  happens  to  you, 
and  wherever  you  are,  I  am  your  friend,  if  only  I  may 
be." 

To  this  high  and  rare  simplicity  of  Athena  the  goddess,  he 
could  make  no  response. 

"And  now  I  must  go,"  she  said,  gathering  the  whole  force 
of  her  resolution. 

"Suppose  I  walk  with  you  a  little  of  the  way?"  he  said. 

She  almost  guessed  that  he  meant  it  for  their  last  stioll 
together. 

It  was  a  long  step  from  the  scene  of  the  tea  party  to 
Mary's  door,  but  no  finer  evening  for  a  walk  could  have 
been  desired.  Neither  knew  why  they  chose  to  take  it.  For 
both  it  was  a  mere  prolongation  of  misery.  Perhaps  it  was 
that  he  still  hoped,  against  hope  itself,  for  the  moment  to 
return  in  which  it  would  be  possible  to  tell  the  secret  that 
locked  his  lips. 

Humiliated  as  he  was,  there  may  still  have  been  that 
thought  in  his  mind.  But  it  was  vain  in  any  case.  There 
could  be  no  real  intention  now  of  telling  her.  By  the  time 
they  had  crossed  the  park,  he  had  cast  it  entirely  away.  And 
now  they  fell  to  talking  of  other  matters. 

Unwilling  to  let  her  go,  cleaving  to  her  in  his  weakness  to 
the  very  last  second  of  the  very  last  hour,  he  persuaded  her 
to  sit  a  few  minutes  on  an  empty  bench  under  the  trees  .  .  . 
under  the  trees  within  whose  shade  he  had  sat  when  he  had 
seen  her  first.  And  there  he  had  from  her  lips  a  definite 
expression  of  her  faith. 

It  was  with  that  they  parted — finally,  as  he  believed. 
He  dared  not  put  it  to  himself  in  a  way  so  explicit,  it  was  not 
a  thing  he  could  face  in  such  bare,  set  terms,  but  in  his  brain 
418 


THE  SAILOR 

the  Aladdin's  lamp  was  burning  fitfully,  and  it  was  this  that 
flashed  the  cruel  light  of  truth. 

".  .  .  If  ever  you  want  help !" 

Those  were  the  words  of  their  parting,  as  the  pressure  of 
his  ringers  met  the  last  touch  of  hers.  And  then  she  was 
gone,  and  he  was  gone  .  .  .  and  then  a  bleak,  dull  blind- 
ness came  over  him  and  he  knew  that  more  than  life  had  gone 
with  her. 

XVIII 

A  RUDDERLESS  ship   in  mid-ocean,   he  wandered 
long  and  aimlessly  about  the  byways  of  the  uty.     It 
was  past  midnight  when  he  found  himself  back  in 
Brinkworth  Street.    Without  taking  off  his  clothes,  he  flung 
himself  face  down  on  his  bed. 

After  a  while,  he  tried  very  hard  to  pull  himself  together. 
He  must  be  a  man,  that  was  the  whole  substance  of  his 
thoughts.  As  ever,  he  knew  that  to  be  his  simple  duty. 
Throughout  his  overdriven  life,  he  had  always  had  to  tell 
himself,  and  other  people  had  always  made  a  point  of  telling 
him,  to  be  a  man.  Auntie  had  been  the  first  to  ask  it  of 
him  when  she  had  dragged  him  upstairs  and  tied  him  to  the 
bed.  "Enry  Arper" — he  had  heard  that  shrill  snigger  above 
the  roar  of  Knightsbridge — "what  I  shall  do  to  you  is  going 
to  hurt,  but  you  must  be  a  man  and  bear  it."  A  jolly  looking 
policeman  had  told  him  to  be  a  man  at  the  police  station. 
Mr.  Thompson  had  told  him  to  be  a  man  the  night  he  car- 
ried him  to  sea.  The  Old  Man  had  given  him  equally  sound 
advice  when  he  had  gravely  told  him  of  the  Island  of  San 
Pedro. 

All  his  life,  it  -seemed,  he  had  not  lacked  good  advice,  and 
hell  only  knew  he  had  always  done  his  best  to  follow  it.    But 
as  now  he  lay  on  his  bed  in  Brinkworth  Street  in  a  cold 
summer  dawn,  he  felt  that  he  was  done. 
419 


THE  SAILOR 

The  plain  fact  was  he  was  coming  to  believe  that  he  had 
not  had  a  square  deal.  Life  was  tolerable  for  some,  no 
doubt;  for  people  like  the  Pridmores,  for  instance,  and  his 
friend  Edward  Ambrose — he  was  not  envying  them  meanly, 
nor  was  he  merely  pitying  himself — for  those  who  had  been 
born  right,  who  had  had  a  fair  start,  who  had  been  given 
a  reasonably  plumb  wicket  to  play  on,  as  Klondyke  expressed 
it.  But  for  gutter  breeds  such  as  himself,  there  was  not 
one  chance  in  a  million  of  ever  winning  through.  He  had 
done  all  it  was  possible  for  a  man  to  do,  and  now  with  a 
feeling  of  more  than  impotence,  he  realized  that  he  was  out. 

He  had  learned  a  trick  of  praying  this  last  year  or  two, 
but  in  this  cold  summer  dawn  he  had  no  longer  a  use  for  it. 
What  was  the  good  ?  Somebody — it  was  not  for  him  to  say 
Who — had  not  played  fair.  Henry  Harper,  you  must  be  a 
man  and  bear  it!  A  sudden  gust  of  rage  swept  through  him 
as  he  lay.  The  voice  of  Auntie  was  coming  back  to  him 
out  of  the  years.  And  she  was  exhorting  him  to  an  in- 
human stoicism  in  order  that  she  might  serve  her  private 
ends. 

Some  time  between  six  and  seven,  in  a  state  of  awful 
dejection,  he  undressed  and  got  into  bed.  He  did  not  want 
Mr.  Paley  to  find  him  like  that  when  he  brought  the  water 
for  his  bath  at  eight  o'clock.  It  would  not  be  right  to  wound 
the  feelings  of  a  good  man.  But  if  Henry  Harper  had  had 
the  courage  to  take  a  razor,  well.  .  .  .  Mr.  Paley  would 
not  have  found  him  in  bed.  Since  that  night  on  the  railway, 
now  many  years  ago,  he  had  lost  the  nerve  for  anything  of 
that  kind.  He  had  always  thought  that  on  that  night  some- 
thing had  snapped  in  the  center  of  himself. 

At  eight  o'clock,  when  the  punctual  Mr.  Paley  came  with 
the  water  can,  Henry  Harper  told  him  that  he  was  not  going 
to  get  up  at  present,  and  that  he  would  not  be  in  need  of 
breakfast. 

420 


THE  SAILOR 

"Aren't  you  well,  sir?"  asked  Mr.  Paley,  in  his  discreet 
voice. 

"No,  I'm  not  very  well." 

"I'm  sorry,  sir."  Mr.  Paley  had  the  gift  of  expressing 
true  sympathy  in  his  tone  and  bearing.  "You  have  been  a 
little  run  down  some  days  now,  have  you  not,  sir?" 

"Longer  than  that,"  said  the  Sailor.  "Ever  since  I've 
been  born,  I've  been  a  poor  sort  of  brute." 

"Robust  health  is  an  untold  blessing.  I'm  glad  to  say 
I've  always  enjoyed  it  myself,  and  so  has  Mrs.  Paley.  Would 
you  like  to  see  a  doctor,  sir?  I'll  go  along  at  once  to  Dr. 
Gibb  at  the  end  of  the  street." 

"A  doctor  is  no  use  for  my  complaint." 

Mr.  Paley  was  grieved,  but  he  wisely  withdrew  without 
further  comment. 

The  Sailor  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  with  a  vague  sort 
of  prayer  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  die.  But  it  was  not  to 
heaven;  the  deadly  pressure  of  events  had  forced  him  in 
spite  of  a  lifetime's  hard  and  bitter  fighting  to  accept  Mr. 
Thompson's  theory.  The  troll  of  Auntie,  who  was  exuding 
gin  and  wickedness  around  his  pillow,  had  been  now  rein- 
forced by  the  mate  of  the  Margaret  Carey. 

A  pleasant  pair  they  made,  these  trolls  from  his  youth. 
And  there  were  others.  If  only  that  delicate  spring  had  not 
snapped,  he  must  have  jumped  out  of  bed  and  settled  the 
business  out  of  hand.  "Be  a  man,"  said  the  voice  of  Auntie. 
"There's  the  case  on  the  dressing  table  straight  before  your 
eyes.  Be  a  man,  Enry  Arper,  and  set  about  it." 

Auntie  was  right.  He  got  out  of  bed.  He  took  up  the 
case  and  stood  an  instant  holding  it  in  his  hand. 

"Lay  holt  on  it,  bye."  That  was  Mr.  Thompson's  gruff 
tone,  and  it  was  followed  immediately  by  Auntie's  shrill  and 
peculiar  snigger. 

There  was  one  other  thing,  however,  on  the  dressing 
421 


THE  SAILOR 

table:  a  comfortable,  green-backed  edition  of  the  "Poems  of 
John  Milton."  The  Sailor  didn't  know  why,  but  he  took  up 
the  now  familiar  volume  with  his  unoccupied  hand.  It  may 
have  been  mere  blind  chance,  it  may  have  been  one  last 
cunning  effort  on  the  part  of  the  genie,  for  by  some  means 
the  book  came  open  at  a  certain  place  in  the  middle.  Sud- 
denly the  brown  case  fell  to  the  carpet  with  a  thud. 

In  spite  of  the  trolls  besieging  him,  the  Sailor  crept  back 
to  his  bed  with  the  book  in  his  hands.  What  wonderful, 
wonderful  worlds  were  these !  And  he  was  little  more  than 
twenty-eight.  And  the  sun  of  Brinkworth  Street  had  entered 
his  chamber  to  tell  him  that  this  was  a  gorgeous  morning  of 
midsummer. 

The  battle  was  not  over  yet,  however.  Auntie  and  Mr. 
Thompson  in  the  hour  of  their  necessity  had  summoned  to 
their  aid  the  Old  Man  and  Cora  Dobbs.  It  was  now  all  hell 
let  loose. 

"Chuck  it,  ducky."  It  was  Cora's  voice  now.  "You  are 
not  a  man,  you  know,  and  never  will  be.  You  are  no  use, 
anyway.  Get  out  of  your  little  bed,  now,  and  cut  off  the 
gas  at  the  meter." 

Time  went  on,  but  he  made  no  attempt  to  reckon  how 
much  of  it.  He  was  too  fiercely  occupied  in  fighting  the 
damned.  Once  or  twice  it  seemed  that  they  must  surely 
down  him.  Their  insane  laughter  hovered  round  his  pillow 
continually,  even  in  the  broad  light  of  a  very  glorious  day. 
Sooner  or  later,  he  feared,  there  could  only  be  one  end  to  it 
all.  John  Milton  or  no  John  Milton,  they  almost  had  him 
out  of  bed  again,  when  Mr.  Paley  came  quite  unexpectedly 
into  the  room. 

"Mr.  Pridmore,  sir,  has  called.    Shall  I  ask  him  up  ?" 

Klondyke,  however,  had  come  up  without  waiting  to  be 
invited. 

"Mary  told  me  you  were  a  bit  below  the  weather,"  he 
422 


THE  SAILOR 

said,  "so  I  thought  I'd  come  and  see  you.    What's  the  mat- 
ter?" 

The  Sailor  could  not  answer  the  question.  He  could  only 
gaze  with  wild  eyes  at  his  friend. 

"You've  been  working  too  hard,  I  expect,"  said  Klondyke, 
looking  at  him  shrewdly.  "Overdriving  the  buzz-box,  my 
boy,  with  this  new  book  that  Ted  Ambrose  thinks  is  going 
to  be  great.  You'll  have  to  have  rest  and  a  change." 

Klondyke  perched  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  as  if  it  had  been 
Sailor's  bunk  in  the  half-deck  of  the  Margaret  Carey. 

"Mary  said  you  talked  of  going  away  for  a  bit,  and  she 
thought  you  might  like  me  to  come  with  you.  Now  what 
do  you  say  to  a  little  trip  as  far  as  Frisco,  for  the  sake  of  old 
times?  You  can  put  me  down  there.  I'm  just  beginning 
to  feel,  after  a  month  here,  that  I  shall  be  none  the  worse  for 
another  trek  to  Nowhere  and  back.  And  then  you  can  come 
home  by  the  next  boat  and  finish  your  job,  or  go  on  a  bit  fur- 
ther round  the  coast,  if  you  fancy  it.  What  do  you  say, 
old  friend?" 

The  Sailor,  supine  in  his  bed,  was  unable  to  say  anything. 
But  the  trolls  had  no  use  for  Klondyke.  Hissing  and 
snarling  they  had  flown  already  to  distant  corners  of  the 
room. 

"Shall  we  fix  that?  I'll  go  now  to  Cockspur  Street  and 
see  if  I  can  book  a  couple  of  saloon  berths  for  tomorrow — 
there's  a  boat  for  Frisco  most  Wednesdays,  and  you  are  not 
up  to  roughing  it  at  present.  Besides,  there's  no  reason  >yhy 
3Tou  should.  Now,  Sailor,  what  do  you  say?" 

In  spite  of  all  the  trolls  there  were  in  the  universe,  Klon- 
dyke was  still  Klondyke,  it  seemed.  Perhaps  he  alone  could 
have  conquered  them. 

"That  fixes  it,"  he  said.     "Just  get  your  gear  together. 
You  won't  want  much.     And  mine's  ready  any  time.     I'll 
go  along  at  once,  and  come  back  and  report." 
423 


THE  SAILOR 

Two  minutes  later,  Klondyke  was  away  on  his  errand,  only 
too  happy  at  the  prospect  of  being  in  harness  again. 

For  the  time  being,  the  trolls  were  overthrown.  The  battle 
was  not  yet  won,  but  a  staunch  friend  had  given  the  Sailor 
new  fighting  power.  He  was  by  no  means  his  own  man ;  he 
felt  he  never  could  be  again;  all  the  same,  when  Klondyke 
returned  about  an  hour  later  with  the  news  that  he  had  been 
able  to  secure  two  berths  for  the  following  day,  Henry  Har- 
per was  dressed,  he  was  bathed  and  shaved,  he  was  clothed  in 
his  right  mind  more  or  less. 


XIX 

ON  the  following  night,  the  Sailor  put  once  more  to 
sea.  But  it  was  very  different  faring  from  any  he 
had  known  before.  A  craft  of  this  kind  was  an- 
other new  world  to  him.  Indeed,  so  little  did  it  resemble 
the  Margaret  Carey,  that  it  was  hard  to  realize  at  first  that 
he  was  once  more  ocean  bound.  Even  the  tang  of  salt  in  the 
air  and  the  wash  of  the  waves  against  the  sides  of  the  great 
ship  were  scarcely  enough  to  assure  him  that  he  was  again 
afloat. 

It  was  the  presence  of  Klondyke  which  really  convinced 
him. 

"I  never  thought  we  should  come  to  this,"  said  his  friend 
as  they  lingered  in  boiled  shirts  over  an  excellent  dinner  and 
a  band  the  second  day  out.  "It's  better  than  having  to  turn 
out  on  deck  at  eight  bells  with  your  oilskins  soaked  and  the 
nose  of  the  Horn  in  front  of  you.  You  think  so,  Sailor,  I 
know." 

Henry  Harper  confessed  that  he  did. 

"How  you  stuck  it  all  those  years,  I  can't  think,"  said 
Klondyke.  "How  any  chap  sticks  it  who  doesn't  really  take 
424 


THE  SAILOR 

to  the  sea  passes  me.  But  you  were  always  a  nailer  for 
keeping  on  keeping  on." 

The  case  might  be  even  as  Klondyke  said,  but  the  Sailor 
had  about  reached  his  limit. 

Klondyke  himself,  who  was  not  a  close  observer,  was 
struck  by  the  change.  He  couldn't  quite  make  him  out. 
In  his  peculiar  way,  he  had  a  great  regard  for  the  Sailor. 
He  considered  him  to  be  a  white  man  all  through ;  and  know- 
ing so  much  of  the  facts  of  his  life,  he  felt  his  grit  was  quite 
extraordinary.  But  now  it  had  begun  to  seem  that  this  gal- 
lant fighter  was  losing  tenacity.  There  was  something  about 
him  which  suggested  a  boxer  who  has  been  knocked  to  the 
boards,  who  is  trying  to  rise  before  he  is  counted  out  and 
sickly  realizes  that  he  can't. 

What  had  happened?  It  was  clear  that  he  had  had  an 
awful  facer.  How  had  he  come  by  it?  Klondyke  belonged 
to  a  type  which  strictly  preferred  its  own  business  to  that  of 
anyone  else,  but  it  was  impossible  not  to  ask  these  questions, 
knowing  as  much  of  Henry  Harper  as  he  did. 

Was  Mary  the  cause?  Had  the  blow  been  dealt  by  her? 
Somehow,  he  did  not  think  that  could  be  the  case.  And 
yet  there  was  a  doubt  in  his  mind.  He  knew,  at  least,  that 
Mary  was  fearfully  upset.  It  was  she  who  had  come  to 
him  with  a  particular  look  in  her  eyes  and  had  proposed 
a  voyage  for  the  Sailor  on  the  plea  that  he  had  been  work- 
ing too  hard.  That  certainly  did  not  suggest  any  unkindness 
on  her  part.  All  the  same,  he  knew  that  his  family  strongly 
disapproved  of  her  intimacy  with  Henry  Harper. 

Putting  two  and  two  together,  he  was  half  inclined  to 
believe  that  the  Sailor  had  proposed  to  Mary,  and  that  against 
her  own  wish  she  had  refused  him.  But  even  that  hypothe- 
sis did  not  account  for  the  morbid  and  rudderless  state  he 
was  in  nowr. 

Nevertheless,  the  Sailor  had  still  a  little  fight  left  in  him. 
425 


THE  SAILOR 

About  the  third  or  fourth  day  out,  he  had  begun  to  make 
.an  effort  to  pull  himself  together,  and  then  it,  became  clear 
that  the  voyage  was  doing  him  good.  In  a  week  he  was  a 
new  man.  He  was  still  deeply  mysterious,  he  was  not  keen 
and  alert  as  he  used  to  be,  but  to  the  unsubtle  mind  of 
Klondyke  that  implied  a  case  of  overwork. 

Indeed,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  that  must  always  be 
the  primary  fact  in  regard  to  the  Sailor.  How  the  chap  must 
have  sapped  in  the  nine  years  since  last  they  had  put  to  sea. 
It  was  almost  incredible  that  a  man  who  had  made  a  repu- 
tation with  his  pen,  who  in  speech  and  bearing  could  pass 
inuster  anywhere,  should  have  been  picked  out  of  the  gutter 
•unable  to  write  his  own  name,  and  set  aboard  the  Margaret 
Carey. 

Yes,  this  chap  had  enormous  fighting  power.  There  was 
not  one  man  in  a  million  who  could  have  overcome  such  a 
start  as  that.  It  would  be  a  tragic  pity  if  he  went  under 
just  as  he  was  coming  into  his  own. 

When  they  reached  Frisco  the  Sailor  was  so  much  more 
himself  that  Klondyke,  who  at  one  time  had  been  disinclined 
to  leave  him,  felt  that  now  he  might  do  so  without  any  fear 
for  his  safety.  In  every  way  he  seemed  very  much  better. 
He  was  brighter,  less  silent.  There  was  still  a  mysterious 
something  about  him  which  he  could  not  account  for,  but  he 
felt  the  worst  was  past  and  that  there  was  no  reason  why 
Henry  Harper  should  not  go  home  alone. 

Therefore,  when  they  came  to  Frisco,  Klondyke  carried 
out  his  plan  of  trekking  to  nowhere  and  back,  where  boiled 
shirts  would  cease  to  trouble  him,  and  where,  with  a  rifle  and 
a  few  cartridges,  and  one  or  two  odds  and  ends  in  a  make- 
shift carry-all  which  had  accompanied  him  to  the  uttermost 
places  of  the  earth,  he  would  really  feel  that  he  was  alive. 
He  invited  the  Sailor  to  come  with  him,  yet  he  knew  that 
such  a  mode  of  life  was  not  for  Henry  Harper.  And  the 
426 


THE  SAILOR 

Sailor  knew  that,  too.  For  one  thing,  he  would  be  wasting 
precious  time  he  could  not  afford  to  lose;  again,  now  that 
lighting  power  was  coming  back  to  him,  he  must  run  his  rede, 
must  prepare  to  outface  destiny. 

Still,  in  taking  leave  of  his  friend,  he  was  trying  himself 
beyond  his  present  strength. 

The  fact  struck  him  with  cruel  force  at  the  moment  of 
parting  on  the  waterfront  at  Frisco.  Klondyke,  wearing  a 
fur  cap  the  replica  of  one  that  would  ever  be  the  magic 
possession  of  Henry  Harper,  was  on  the  point  of  going  his 
way,  and  the  Sailor  had  booked  a  return  passage  to  Liver- 
pool. It  came  upon  him  as  they  said  good-by  that  it  was 
more  than  he  could  bear. 

"You'll  win  out,"  were  the  last  words  spoken  in  the  fa- 
miliar way.  "You've  not  got  so  far  along  the  course  to  be 
downed  in  the  straight.  Keep  on  keeping  on,  and  you'll  get 
through." 

That  was  their  farewell.  But  as  soon  as  the  Sailor 
was  alone,  the  awaiting  trolls  were  on  him.  He  was  in 
better  shape  now  than  in  those  hours  in  Brinkworth  Street, 
but  the  conflict  was  grim.  Every  ounce  of  will  was 
needed. 

He  went  aboard  feeling  dazed.  Even  yet  he  had  not 
grasped  the  worst.  He  did  not  know  until  the  next  day  that 
England  and  Brinkworth  Street  were  not  yet  possible,  and 
that  perhaps  they  never  would  be.  Therefore,  when  they 
touched  at  the  port  of  Boston  he  changed  ship  and  put  about, 
having  suddenly  determined  to  make  the  grand  tour  as  a 
saloon  passenger. 

He  was  well  off  for  money.  Popularity  had  come  to  him 
as  well  as  technical  success.  He  could  afford  to  sail  round 
the  world  first  class.  And  having  reached  this  wise  decision, 
he  began  in  earnest  to  fight  destiny. 

He  had  made  a  pledge  that  he  would  not  write  to  Mary, 
23  427 


THE  SAILOR 

also,  if  his  will  endured,  he  would  never  see  her  again.  It 
seemed  the  only  course  after  that  last  failure. 

John  Milton  was  writh  him,  also  the  Bible  and  Shake- 
speare and  Shelton's  "Don  Quixote"  and  Boswell's  "Life  of 
Johnson,"  and  a  translation  of  Montaigne.  Moreover,  he 
had  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey  in  English,  also  a  Greek  Lexi- 
con. With  the  aid  of  this,  he  spent  many  an  hour  in  quarry- 
ing painfully,  but  with  a  certain  amount  of  success,  in  the 
original.  This  royal  company  did  much  to  hold  the  trolls 
at  bay.  But  in  the  evening  they  would  hover  round  the  lamp 
in  the  saloon;  and  during  the  night,  when  he  awoke  to  the 
wash  of  the  sea,  expecting  to  hear  eight  bells  struck  and  half 
wishing  he  was  dead  in  consequence,  because  he  would  have  to 
tumble  out  of  his  bunk  and  ascend  shivering  to  the  deck  of 
the  Margaret  Carey,  then  was  a  time  for  the  foe.  But  with 
John  Milton  and  a  greater  than  John  by  his  elbow,  and 
with  Aladdin's  wonderful  lamp  still  burning  fitfully  through 
the  night,  although  of  late  the  genie  had  apparently  forgot- 
ten to  trim  it,  the  demons  for  all  their  hissing  and  snarling 
were  never  really  able  to  fasten  their  fangs  upon  him  as  they 
had  done  that  morning  in  Brinkworth  Street. 

Weeks  went  by.  He  saw  strange  sights  and  many  fa- 
miliar ones,  he  touched  at  some  unknown  and  some  half 
remembered  ports,  .he  watched  the  sun  gild  many  majestic 
cities.  Once  again  he  saw  on  the  starboard  bow  the  trees 
of  the  Island  of  San  Pedro.  Once  again  he  saw  the  sharks 
with  their  dead-white  bellies  and  heard  their  continual  plop- 
plop  in  the  water.  Once  again  he  heard  the  Old  Man  come 
up  the  cabin  stairs.  This  time  the  heavens  did  not  open,  per- 
haps for  the  reason  that  there  was  no  heaven  to  open  for 
Henry  Harper  now. 

About  the  third  day  out  from  Auckland  on  the  homeward 
tack,  he  put  forth  a  great  effort  to  come  to  grips  with  "A 
Master  Mariner,"  Book  Three.  But  after  a  week  of  futile 
428 


THE  SAILOR 

struggling  he  discovered  that  Aladdin's  lamp  was  extin- 
guished altogether. 

The  knowledge  was  bitter,  but  it  must  be  accepted.  Hope 
was  the  magic  fuel  with  which  the  lamp  was  fed.  If  that 
priceless  stuff  should  fail,  the  lamp  could  burn  no  more. 
Whatever  he  did  now  it  seemed  as  clear  as  the  glorious  sun 
of  the  Antipodes  that  the  mariner  would  never  come  into 
port. 

Several  times  he  changed  ship.  Mind  and  will  steadily 
developed,  but  he  was  never  captain  of  his  soul.  The  de- 
mons of  the  past  no  longer  besieged  him,  but  Book  Three 
was  still  becalmed.  The  hour  was  not  yet  in  which  he  could 
return. 

Months  went  by,  but  the  future  remained  an  abyss. 

In  the  end,  Ulysses  came  back  to  the  shores  of  his  native 
Ithaca  for  a  prosaic  but  sufficient  reason.  It  was  merely 
that  he  was  in  need  of  money.  After  eleven  months  of 
wandering  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  the  liberal  store  he 
carried  had  almost  disappeared.  Quite  suddenly  one  night, 
in  the  Mediterranean,  he  took  the  decision  to  return  to 
London. 


XX 


THE  Sailor  knew  as  soon  as  he  stepped  on  the  platform 
at  Charing  Cross  that  he  had  no  wish  to  see  again 
that  city  which  had  treated  him  with  such  unkind- 
ness.-  He  left  his  gear  in  the  station  cloak  room,  and  then 
by  the  time  he  had  gone  a  few  yards  he  regretted  bitterly 
that  he  had  ever  come  back  at  all.    The  mere  sight  of  the 
omnibuses,  of  the  names  on  the  hoardings,  of  the  grotesquely 
miscellaneous  throngs  in  the  Strand,  told  him  that  .eleven 
months  of  ceaseless  wandering  haa  hone  notrring,  or  at  tne 
best  very  little,  to  heal  the  wound  he  bore. 
429 


THE  SAILOR 

These  streets  brought  an  ache  that,  steel  his  will  as  he 
might,  he  could  hardly  bear.  There  to  the  right  was  the 
National  Gallery.  It  was  on  just  such  a  morning  as  this  that 
she  had  led  him  to  the  Turners.  Farther  along  were  Pall 
Mall  and  Edward  Ambrose. 

Five  minutes  he  stood  on  the  curb  at  the  top  of  North- 
umberland Avenue,  trying  to  decide  whether  he  should  cross 
Trafalgar  Square.  Once  more  the  old  sense  of  disintegra- 
tion was  upon  him.  Once  more  he  was  asking  himself  what 
he  ought  to  do. 

Eleven  months  had  passed,  but  things  were  as  they  were. 
In  that  time  not  a  line  had  been  added  to  the  work  he  was 
trying  to  do.  Yet  he  felt  that  his  first  duty  was  to  go  to 
see  Edward  Ambrose.  Let  him  go  now.  It  was  no  use  shirk- 
ing it.  But  a  curious  instinct  was  holding  him  back.  It  was 
illogical,  he  knew,  but  every  moment  that  he  stood  there 
seemed  to  make  the  task  more  difficult. 

In  a  state  of  irresolution  he  crossed  the  road  as  far  as  an 
island  in  the  middle.  The  sense  of  familiarity  was  growing 
at  every  step.  Within  a  very  few  yards  was  Spring  Gardens. 
He  could  see  two  doors  up  the  street  the  brass  plate  of 
Messrs.  Mortimer  mocking  him  through  a  weird  substitute 
for  the  light  of  day. 

In  spite  of  all  the  months  that  had  passed,  the  sight  of 
that  brass  plate  was  like  a  knife  in  his  body.  He  turned 
from  the  island  to  dash  across  a  very  dangerous  road,  and 
came  within  an  ace  of  the  death  that  would  have  been  so 
welcome.  A  taxi  avoided  him  by  an  almost  miraculous 
swerve,  for  which,  when  he  realized  it,  he  did  not  thank  the 
driver. 

All  at  sea  he  crossed  the  Square  and  entered  Pall  Mall. 
In  the  process  of  time  he  came  to  the  home  of  Brown's  Maga- 
zine. Edward  Ambrose  gave  him  a  welcome  that  nearly 
brought  tears  to  his  eyes. 

430 


THE  SAILOR 

"My  dear  boy!"  he  said.  "Not  one  word  in  all  these 
months!  Anyhow  you  have  come  back  to  us." 

It  was  impossible  to  doubt  the  friendship  and  the  affection 
of  this  greeting.  The  Sailor  felt  a  pang  of  shame.  As  a 
fact,  he  had  been  too  modest  to  expect  such  loyalty. 

"I'm  .  .  .  I'm  sorry." 

"You  had  no  right  to  forget  your  friends,"  said  Edward 
Ambrose,  a  little  resentfully.  He  knew  the  workings  of  this 
childishly  open  mind,  and  it  hurt  him  that  a  sincere  emo- 
tion should  have  been  underrated. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Sailor  queerly.    "It  was  rotten." 

"You  are  looking  splendidly  brown  and  well,"  said  Ed- 
ward Ambrose  as  soon  as  it  seemed  the  part  of  wisdom  to 
speak.  "You  don't  mean  to  say  that  Dick  Smith  has  been 
sailing  the  high  seas  all  these  long  months?" 

"Not  Dick  Smith.     Ulysses." 

Ambrose  gave  a  little  start  of  pure  pleasure. 

"Then,"  he  said,  "a  master  mariner  has  really  come  into 
port?" 

"No."  He  stifled  a  groan.  "And  never  will,  I'm  think- 
ing. That  poor  sailor  man  is  still  becalmed  east  by  west  of 
Nowhere,  and  never  a  sign  of  land  on  either  bow." 

"But  you  must  put  it  through  somehow.  Tell  me  ...  is 
there  anything  I  can  do  to  help  you?" 

The  Sailor  shook  his  head  miserably. 

"I  can't  accept  that  as  final,"  said  Edward  Ambrose.  It's 
— it's — I  hesitate  to  say  what  it  may  be  if  only  you  carry 
it  out  as  you  have  conceived  it.  If  you  don't  do  that  I  some 
how  feel  the  high  gods  will  never  forgive  you  ...  or  me." 

If  anything  could  have  rekindled  Aladdin's  lamp  in  the 
Sailor's  soul  it  would  have  been  the  enthusiasm  of  this  friend. 
But  it  was  not  to  be;  the  trolls  had  him  captive. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  gently,  knowing  the  stab  he  dealt. 
"It  is  no  fault  of  yours.  It's  you  that's  made  me  all  I  am 


THE  SAILOR 

.  .  .  and  if  any  man  could  have  helped  me  here  you  would 
have  been  that  man.  But  I'm  just  a  broken  mariner.  It's  no 
use  mincing  it — I'm  done." 

The  stark  simplicity  of  the  confession  made  Edward  Am- 
brose gasp.  He  could  say  nothing.  In  the  honest  eyes  was 
a  look  of  consternation. 

"A  mariner  has  got  to  have  a  star  to  work  by.  Even  old 
Ulysses  had  to  have  that.  But  there's  not  one  for  Henry 
Harper  in  all  the  firmament."  He  fell  into  a  sudden,  odd, 
and  queer  kind  of  rage.  "It's  a  black  shame.  If  only  I'd 
had  a  fair  chance  I'd  have  put  this  thing  through.  You 
might  say" — the  harsh  laugh  jarred  worse  than  the  baffled 
anger — "I'm  a  chap  who  has  been  handicapped  out  of  the 
race.  However  .  .  ."  The  Sailor  became  silent. 

Ambrose  felt  himself  to  be  shaken.  The  impotent  fury 
of  this  elemental  soul  was  something  beyond  his  experience. 
He  hardened  his  heart.  It  must  be  his  task  to  anchor  this 
derelict  adrift  in  uncharted  seas  until  such  time  as  help 
could  come  to  him. 

"Henry,"  he  said  suddenly,  "does  Mary  Pridmore  know 
you  have  returned?" 

"No." 

Edward  Ambrose  mustered  his  courage. 

"If  you  don't  bring  the  manner  into  port  it  will  be  a  heavy 
blow  for  her." 

"What  has  it  to  do  with  her?"  was  the  almost  savage 
reply. 

"She  believes  in  you." 

"Why  should  she?"    There  was  almost  a  note  of  menace. 

"She  is  your  friend.    We  are  both  your  friends." 

The  quiet  tone  somehow  prevailed. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  queerly,  "you  are  both  my  friends. 
And  I'm  not  worthy  of  either." 

"Suppose  we  leave  her  to  be  the  judge  of  that." 
432 


THE  SAILOR 

The  Sailor  shook  his  head. 

"She  can't  judge  anything  until  .  .  .  until  I've  told  her 
.  .  .  about  Cora." 

"She  has  not  been  told?"  Ambrose  spoke  casually,  im- 
passively. Somehow  he  had  allowed  himself  to  guess  that 
the  Sailor  had  told  her,  and  that  she  had  sent  him  away. 
Why  he  should  have  come  to  that  rather  fantastic  conclusion 
he  didn't  know,  except  that  she  had  not  had  a  line  from 
Henry  Harper  in  eleven  months.  But  he  saw  at  once  that 
he  was  wrong. 

He  felt  that  he  must  use  great  care.  The  ice  was  even 
thinner  than  he  had  suspected.  Moreover  an  acute  percep- 
tion told  him  that  nothing  would  be  easier  than  for  ill  in- 
formed well-meaningness  to  commit  a  tragic  blunder. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  thought  I  had?"  The  Sailor 
put  his  question  oddly,  disconnectedly. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Edward  Ambrose  jesuitically,  "I  have 
never  been  impertinent  enough  to  think  the  matter  out.  I 
know  nothing  beyond  the  fact  that  Mary  Pridmore  is  very 
much  your  friend." 

"There's  no  use  in  saying  that  when  I  can  never  be  hers." 

"Ah,  there  I  don't  agree,"  said  Edward  Ambrose  calmly. 

"Why  not  look  the  facts  in  the  face?" 

"Yes,  why  not?" 

"Friendship  between  us  is  impossible.  That's  why  I  went 
away.  We  ...  we  played  it  up  too  high.  Friendship  be- 
tween a  man  and  a  woman  is  no  use  ...  at  least  not  to 
her  and  me  ...  although  .  .  ." 

"I'm  not  talking  merely  of  friendship,"  said  Edward 
Ambrose,  very  deliberately.  "I'm  talking  of  something  else." 

So  charged  with  meaning  were  the  words  that  the  Sailor 
recoiled  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow. 

"What  .  .  .  what  are  you  saying!"  he  cried  with  a  sud- 
den blind  rage  in  his  face. 

433 


BOOK  V 

FULFILLMENT 


WHY  do  you  taunt  me?"    cried  the  Sailor  after  a 
pause  hard  to  endure. 
"I  offer  neither  reason  nor  excuse  for  the  words 
I  have  used,"  said  Edward  Ambrose  calmly.     "I  can  only 
say  that  she  is  more  than  your  friend.    You  must  remember 
that  you  have  been  away  eleven  months.     In  the  meantime 
water  still  continues  to  flow  under  London  Bridge." 

"I  don't  follow  you  " 

"Yes,  of  course — one  assumes  too  much.  One  forgets 
that  you  have  been  away  so  long  and  that  apparently  you 
have  not  yet  seen  Mortimer." 

"Mortimer!" 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  told  you  .  .  .  yes  ...  I  can 
see  I  ought  to  have.  Mortimer  has  news." 

"News!" 

"Now  I  am  going  to  put  you  out.  Go  at  once  and  see 
him." 

Henry  Harper  presently  realized  that  he  was  again  on  the 
pavement  of  Pall  Mall,  but  he  was  too  bewildered  to  know 
how  he  had  come  there.  He  was  in  a  kind  of  dream.  But 
all  he  did  had  a  specific  purpose.  For  instance,  he  was  going 
to  see  Mr.  Mortimer.  Yet  he  could  not  understand  what 
lay  behind  his  friend's  desire  that  he  should  see  the  solicitor 
at  once.  The  true  explanation  never  occurred  to  him. 
435 


THE  SAILOR 

Mr.  Mortimer  had  to  tell  him  that  his  wife  had  died  two 
months  ago  in  the  course  of  one  of  her  bouts  of  drinking. 
At  first  the  Sailor  could  not  grasp  the  significance  of  the 
statement.  It  hardly  seemed  to  make  any  impact  upon  him. 
He  thanked  Mr.  Mortimer  for  all  his  services  in  a  trying 
matter,  and  went  out  into  the  street,  apparently  giving  very 
little  thought  to  what  had  happened. 

Here,  however,  he  grew  suddenly  aware  that  the  aspect 
of  things  had  completely  changed.  Something  had  occurred 
which  lay  beyond  his  ken,  but  he  knew  already  that  the 
whole  universe  was  different. 

A  new  man  in  brain  and  heart,  he  collected  his  things 
from  Charing  Cross  and  drove  to  Brinkworth  Street.  His 
room  was  ready  to  receive  him  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he 
had  been  away  eleven  months.  He  had  written  to  Mr. 
Paley  from  time  to  time  inclosing  money  and  telling  him 
that  he  hoped  to  be  home  presently.  And  home  he  was 
at  last. 

It  was  not  at  once  that  he  could  set  his  thoughts  in  order. 
But  one  fact  was  clear.  He  was  free.  He  was  free  to  enjoy 
the  light  of  heaven,  to  breathe  the  breath  of  life. 

In  the  height  of  the  tumult  now  upon  him  he  took  a  re- 
solve. The  barrier  was  down.  He  would  put  all  to  the 
touch.  Somehow  he  had  an  implicit  faith.  A  gulf  was  fixed, 
he  knew,  between  Mary  and  himself.  She  belonged  to  a 
world  far  removed  from  the  one  in  which  he  had  been  born, 
in  which  he  had  passed  so  much  of  his  life.  But  he  had  that 
final  pledge,  "If  ever  you  want  help!"  Well,  there  was  only 
one  way  in  which  she  could  help  him,  and  that  she  knew  as 
well  as  he. 

Soon  after  five  he  set  out.    If  he  went  leisurely  he  would 

reach  Queen  Street  about  six,  a  propitious  hour.     She  was 

generally  at  home  at  that  time.    It  was  hard  to  believe  that 

he  was  the  same  man  who  had  stood  that  morning  on  the 

436 


THE  SAILOR 

curb  at  Charing  Cross.  He  had  absolutely  nothing  now  in 
common  with  that  broken  mariner. 

In  those  few  brief  hours  he  had  suffered  one  sea  change 
the  more.  The  genie  had  relit  the  lamp.  Again  he  was  a 
forward-looking  man.  Nay,  he  was  more.  He  was  a  prince 
of  the  blood  approaching  the  portals  of  an  imperial  kingdom. 

Otto,  a  prince  of  that  other  kingdom,  issued  from  the 
threshold  of  No.  50,  while  Venables,  the  butler,  with  polite 
surprise,  was  in  the  very  act  of  receiving  the  Sailor. 

"Hulloa,  Harper,"  said  the  Prince.  "Turned  up  again. 
We  had  all  given  you  up  for  lost." 

It  might  have  been  possible  for  a  delicate  ear  to  detect 
something  other  than  welcome  in  the  voice  of  his  highness. 
But  whether  such  was  the  case  or  not  was  a  matter  of  no 
concern  to  the  returned  mariner. 

Mary  was  at  home  and  alone.  At  first  he  was  a  little  un- 
nerved by  the  sight  of  her,  and  she  perhaps  by  the  sight  of 
him.  The  look  of  sadness  in  her  face  distressed  him. 

"Not  one  line,"  she  said.  But  there  was  nothing  of  Ed- 
ward Ambrose's  half  reproach  in  her  voice. 

"No." 

"I  was  beginning  to  think  I  should  never  see  or  hear  of 
you  again."  Her  simplicity  was  the  exact  counterpart  of 
his  own. 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  meant  you  to." 

She  waited  patiently  for  him  to  add  to  his  strange  words 
and  was  slow  to  realize  that  he  couldn't. 

"That  would  have  been  cruel,"  she  said  at  last. 

"It  would  have  been  cruel  either  way.  However,  it  is  all 
done  with  now." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  finding  that 
speech  had  failed  him  again. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  can  tell  you." 

Ought  he  to  tell  her?  A  harrowing  doubt  arose.  She 
437 


THE  SAILOR 

knew  that  there  had  been  some  grave  reason  for  his  going 
away.  But  what  the  hidden  cause  had  been,  hers  was  not  a 
nature  that  would  ask.  She  only  knew  that  if  speech  and 
bearing  meant  anything,  he  was  deeply  in  love  with  her,  and 
yet  for  some  unfathomable  reason  he  had  shirked  the  issue. 

And  now  he  had  returned  after  these  long  months,  which 
to  her  as  well  as  to  himself  had  been  a  time  of  more  than 
bitterness,  there  was  still  this  shadow  between  them.  Yet 
it  surely  belonged  to  the  past.  There  was  no  barrier  be- 
tween them  now,  except  the  memory  of  a  secret  which  some- 
how he  could  not  believe  was  vital. 

In  her  immense  desire  to  serve  him  she  was  ready  to  give 
all  that  he  might  ask.  But  there  was  still  a  reservation  in 
his  mind.  In  the  sudden  revelation,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  of 
the  divine  clemency,  he  was  overwhelmed  by  a  desire  to  con- 
fess all. 

There  may  have  been  no  need  to  do  so,  yet  that  was  not 
a  question  to  ask.  She  was  his,  he  knew  it;  she  would  not 
be  less,  she  would  be  doubly  his,  if  she  learned  the  circum- 
stances of  his  life.  Besides,  so  high  was  the  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing now  upon  him  that  it  seemed  the  course  of  honor.  And 
was  it  not  her  right  to  know  all  concerning  him  before  he 
demanded  so  great  a  sacrifice? 

In  this  mood  he  never  for  a  moment  doubted  that  it  would 
be  a  further  bond.  Let  him  tell  his  secret  now  that  his  lips 
had  been  unsealed. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "do  you  remember  your  words  eleven 
months  ago?" 

"I  remember  them  perfectly." 

"Well,  there  was  only  one  way  in  which  you  could  help 
me  then,  and  that  was  why  I  went  away.  And  I  never 
intended  to  return  unless  I  could  claim  that  which  you  offered 
me." 

"Was  it  necessary?"  '•"•» 

438 


'Mary,'  he  said,  'do  you  remember  your  words  eleven  months  ago?' 


THE  SAILOR 

"Mere  friendship  is  no  use  to  you  and  me.  But  I  couldn't 
ask  you  to  marry  me  then,  although  I  knew  ...  at  least 
I  thought  I  knew  .  .  .  you'll  tell  me  if  I  am  wrong  .  .  ." 

She  couldn't  help  smiling  a  little  at  this  rather  childlike 
confusion. 

".  .  .  that  you  would  marry  me  if  I  asked  you.  But  I 
didn't,  because  I  couldn't.  Do  you  understand  that?  Do 
you  still  look  at  things  in  the  way  you  did?" 

The  soul  of  a  poor  mariner  might  be  tempest  tossed 
on  all  the  oceans  of  the  world,  but  the  soul  of  Mary 
Pridmore  was  the  fixed  star  of  his  faith.  The  mere  thought 
seemed  to  brace  his  courage  for  the  task  that  honor  laid 
upon  him. 

He  took  her  hand.  It  was  the  only  manifestation  he 
would  allow  himself  until  he  had  told  her. 

"I  could  not  ask  you  to  marry  me  then,"  he  said,  "because 
I  had  a  wife." 

"You  had  a  wife."  She  repeated  the  words  numbly,  in- 
credulously. 

"I  had  a  wife,"  he  said,  doggedly.  "She  died  two  months 
ago." 

"And  .  .  .  and  you  never  told  me!" 

"No." 

There  was  an  edge  to  her  tone  that  had  struck  like  a 
knife. 

"Henry!" 

"I  tried,"  he  said  feebly.    "God  knows  I  tried." 

"Yoo.  don't  mean  you  deceived  me?"  Her  voice  was 
hardening. 

"No."  A  queer  kind  of  faintness  was  coming  over  him, 
"I  don't  mean  that.  You  never  asked  me  and  .  .  .  and  I 
never  told  you." 

"But  you  knew  I  took  it  for  granted  that  you  were  not 
married." 

439 


THE  SAILOR 

The  order  and  precision  of  her  speech  began  to  frighten 
him.  He  could  give  no  answer. 

"You  knew  that."    Her  voice  was  hurting  him  terribly. 

"I  don't  say  I  didn't,"  he  said.  He  had  a  sick  feeling 
that  he  was  already  in  the  jaws  of  a  trap.  God  in  heaven, 
what  madness  had  lured  him  to  tell  her  when  he  had  no  need 
to  do  so ! 

"Then  you  deceived  me."    The  voice  was  pitiless. 

He  looked  at  her  with  scared  eyes. 

"Don't  say  that,"  he  said. 

He  saw  there  was  a  cold  light  blazing  in  her  and  he  began 
to  grow  miserably  afraid. 

"I  tried  very  hard  not  to  deceive  you,"  he  said.  "God 
knows  I  tried.  And  it  was  because  I  couldn't  go  on  with  it 
that  I  went  away  and  .  .  .  and  never  meant  to  see  you 
again." 

"I  don't  quite  think  that  is  an  excuse." 

Somehow  the  words  seemed  to  goad  him  on  to  unknown 
perils.  But  he  was  in  a  quicksand,  the  ground  was  moving 
under  his  feet. 

"You  don't  know  what  my  life  has  been,"  he  said  des- 
perately. "You  don't  know  what  a  wife  I  married,  you 
don't  know  anything  about  me,  else  you  wouldn't  be  so 
hard." 

She  realized  while  he  was  speaking,  realized  with  a  kind 
of  nausea,  which  came  suddenly  upon  her,  that  all  he  said 
was  true.  There  was  a  peculiar  note  creeping  into  his  voice 
that  assailed  her  fastidious  ears  like  a  sudden  descent  to  a 
subterranean  region  which  she  knew  to  exist,  but  of  which 
she  had  never  had  first-hand  knowledge.  The  subtle  change 
of  tone  was  telling  her  as  nothing  else  could  have  done 
that  it  was  perfectly  true  that  she  knew  neither  what  his 
life  had  been  nor  anything  about  him. 

"Mary."  In  spite  of  an  intense  feeling  for  him  it  was 
440 


THE  SAILOR 

beginning  to  make  her  wince  to  hear  her  name  on  his  lips. 
"If  you  don't  mind  I  think  I'll  tell  you  one  or  two  things 
about  my  life  and  .  .  .  and  how  I  came  ...  to  get  mar- 
ried." 

"I  think  perhaps  I  would  rather  not  know."  It  was  not 
she  who  said  that.  Long  generations  of  Pridmores  and 
Colthursts  had  suddenly  taken  charge  and  had  answered  for 
her. 

It  was  a  tone  he  had  never  heard  her  use,  not  even  at  the 
dinner  party  at  which  she  had  discussed  the  question  of  di- 
vorce. It  was  almost  as  if  she  had  hit  him  a  blow  and  yet 
without  intending  to  deal  one.  By  this  time  he  had  grown 
so  dazed  and  frightened  that  he  had  begun  to  lose  his  head. 

"The  woman  I  married  was  not  respectable,  and  that  was 
why  I  didn't  tell  you." 

She  drew  away  from  him  a  little.  It  was  quite  an  in- 
voluntary action,  but  he  felt  it  like  a  knife  in  the  flesh.  In 
sick  desperation  he  floundered  on,  suddenly  losing  touch  with 
all  the  small  amenities  of  speech  and  manner  he  had  so  pain- 
fully imposed  upon  himself.  Moreover,  he  realized  the  fact 
with  pangs  that  were  almost  murderous.  There  were  notes 
from  the  Blackhampton  gutter  beginning  to  strike  through 
his  voice. 

"You  don't  know  what  my  life  has  been,"  he  said.  "You 
don't  know  where  I  started  from." 

Again  she  made  that  involuntary  movement,  almost  as  if 
she  felt  that  the  mere  tone  was  defiling  her. 

"You  must  let  me  tell  you  ...  let  me  tell  you  all,  if  you 
don't  mind.  It'll  help  you  understand." 

"I  would  rather  you  didn't."  Again  the  Pridmores  and 
the  Colthursts  were  speaking. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  wildness  that  made  her  shiver. 
An  intense  pity  for  this  man  had  suddenly  begun  to  do  battle 
with  the  Colthursts  and  the  Pridmores.    There  was  some- 
441 


THE  SAILOR 

thing  in  those  eyes,  as  there  always  had  been,  that  was  al- 
most beyond  her  power  to  meet. 

"I  never  had  a  chance,"  he  said,  holding  her  in  thrall 
with  the  voice  she  no  longer  recognized  as  his.  "I've  been 
handicapped  out  of  the  race.  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  Mary. 
It's  not  that  I  want  your  pity  ...  I  ask  more  than  that. 
It's  more  than  pity  will  bring  a  sailorman  like  me  into  port." 

A  kind  of  defiance  of  himself  and  of  her  had  entered  his 
tone.  His  words  seemed  to  open  a  vein  in  her  heart.  She 
had  a  great  compassion  for  this  man,  but  with  all  her  strength 
of  soul,  with  all  her  independence,  she  knew  and  felt  that 
voice  had  already  told  her  that  the  facts  of  his  life  were 
going  to  prove  more  than  she  could  bear. 

In  a  dogged  way,  with  many  of  the  tricks  of  speech  and 
manner  of  former  phases  of  his  life,  which  he  had  sloughed 
as  a  snake  its  skin,  and  had  now  reassumed  in  the  stress  of 
overmastering  agony,  he  told  her  all.  He  spared  her  nothing, 
not  even  his  comparatively  recent  knowledge  that  his  father 
had  been  driven  to  commit  a  murder,  which  in  Henry  Har- 
per's view  accounted  for  the  price  the  son  had  had  to  pay. 
Nothing  was  spared  her  of  Auntie,  of  the  police,  of  the  night 
on  the  railway,  of  Mr.  Thompson  and  the  Old  Man,  of  the 
Margaret  Carey  and  the  Island  of  San  Pedro,  of  Ginger  and 
Blackhampton,  of  the  first  meeting  with  Klondyke,  of  the 
first  meeting  with  Edward  Ambrose,  and,  finally,  an  account 
of  his  fall  into  the  clutches  of  Cora  Dobbs  and  how  he  made 
the  horrible  discovery  concerning  her  on  the  night  of  their 
own  first  memorable  meeting  at  the  dinner  party  in  Bury 
Street. 

Some  insane  demon  seemed  to  urge  him  on.  In  spite  of 
the  look  of  horror  in  her  eyes,  he  told  her  everything.  Some- 
how he  felt  it  was  the  only  reparation  he  could  make  to  her 
for  being  as  he  was. 

"Klondyke  gave  me  my  first  start,"  he  said  finally.  "He 
442 


THE  SAILOR 

knows  nearly  as  much  as  you — except  about  that  woman — 
but  he's  stood  to  me  all  through.  I  don't  ask  your  pity.  I 
admit  I  deceived  you,  Mary,  an'  I  done  wrong,  but  it  warn't 
because  I  didn't  want  to  do  right.  I  got  to  pay  for  it,  I  can 
see  that.  I  dare  say  it's  right,  but  I'll  only  say  .  .  .  and 
this  is  final  .  .  .  Enry  Arper,  whatever  "is  father  done,  don't 
deserve  not  a  half,  not  a  quarter  of  what's  been  done  to  him." 

She  had  to  hold  on  by  the  table.  Something  was  stifling 
her.  There  were  things  in  this  elemental  soul  which  the 
Pridmores  and  the  Colthursts  might  once  have  known,  but 
for  long  generations  had  forgotten. 

She  dare  not  look  at  him.  An  abyss  had  opened.  She 
simply  couldn't  face  it. 

Somehow  he  knew  that.  It  needed  no  words  to  tell  him. 
Everything  was  lost.  The  mariner  could  never  hope  to  come 
into  port.  Again  that  horrible  sense  of  rage  came  on  him, 
which  a  few  hours  age  had  overthrown  him  in  his  interview 
with  Edward  Ambrose.  It  maddened  him  to  think  that  he 
had  been  allowed  to  get  so  far  along  the  road  and  that  a 
subtle  trick  had  defeated  him  when  the  goal  was  actually  in 
sight. 

Yet  even  at  the  last  there  was  just  one  thing,  and  only 
one,  that  stood  to  him :  if  it  was  still  possible  he  must  be  a 
man,  a  gentleman.  He  knew  this  woman  was  suffering 
cruelly,  and  he  owed  it  to  her  and  to  his  friends  not  to  pro- 
fane the  God  she  worshiped.  There  was  no  God  in  heaven 
after  all,  it  seemed,  for  Henry  Harper,  but  for  her,  who 
had  not  the  stain  of  a  father's  crime  upon  her,  it  was  a  differ- 
ent matter. 

As  he  stood  not  three  paces  from  her,  clenched  and  in- 
coherent, fighting  not  to  strike  her  with  the  sudden  awful 
blasphemies  that  were  surging  to  his  lips,  he  knew  nothing 
of  what  was  passing  in  her  mind.  Had  he  known  she  would 
have  had  his  pity.  All  that  her  progenitors  had  stood  for  in 
29  443 


THE  SAILOR 

the  past  had  suddenly  recoiled  upon  her.  All  those  entries 
in  Burke  it  had  been  her  pleasure  to  deride,  all  the  politicians 
and  the  landed  proprietors,  all  the  Lady  Sophias  and  the  Lady 
Carolines,  all  that  flunkyfied  reverence  for  concrete  things  of 
those  generations  of  the  Pridmores  and  the  Colthursts,  which 
had  so  long  affronted  her  high  good  sense,  were  now  having 
thiir  word  to  say  in  the  matter. 

She  had  pledged  her  help  to  this  man  if  ever  he  asked  it, 
but  now  she  found  that  help  was  not  hers  to  give.  Said  the 
tart  voice  of  her  famous  Aunt  Caroline,  it  is  not  to  be  ex- 
pected, my  dear,  of  a  sane  Christian  gentlewoman.  Think 
of  your  father,  my  dear !  By  some  strange  irony,  Mary  Prid- 
more  suddenly  thought  of  him,  that  admired  and  bewhiskered 
servant  of  a  generation  which  allowed  his  friend  Bismarck 
to  steal  Schleswig  and  to  murder  France,  but  paid  itself  the 
tribute  of  building  the  Albert  Memorial;  the  distinguished 
servant  of  a  generation  that  had  denied  reading,  writing,  and 
arithmetic  to  its  Henry  Harpers  and  had  turned  them  bare- 
foot into  its  Blackhampton  gutters. 

Many  things  were  coming  home  to  the  heart  of  Mary 
Pridmore  in  the  awful  silence  of  that  room.  She  was  no 
more  to  blame  for  the  long  line  of  her  fathers  whose  govern- 
ing abilities  were  commemorated  in  the  England  of  the  six- 
ties than  was  their  victim,  Henry  Harper,  in  whose  bruised 
body  and  tormented  soul  had  been  commemorated  his  moth- 
er's murder.  She  was  numb  and  dazed  now  she  had  heard 
his  story,  but  she  had  nothing  to  give  him. 

The  truth  had  come  to  him  already.  "Now,  Enery,  you 
must  be  a  man  and  bear  it,"  said  the  voice  of  Auntie,  wheez- 
ing in  the  upper  air.  Well  ...  if  his  flesh  and  blood  would 
only  let  him  he  must  be  a  gentleman  as  long  as  he  had  the 
honor  to  converse  with  a  real  Hyde  Park  lady  who  believed 
in  God  .  .  .  that  was  all  he  knew  at  the  moment.  If  there 
was  a  spark  of  manhood  in  him  he  must  hold  on  to  that. 
444 


THE  SAILOR 

"Miss  Pridmore."  .  .  .  He  was  able  to  pull  himself  to- 
gether in  a  way  that  astonished  even  himself.  ...  "I  see  it's 
all  over  with  me  and  you.  I'll  never  be  able  to  get  through 
without  your  help.  I'm  fair  done  in.  But  I  don't  blame  you. 
An'  I  just  want  you  to  say  you  don't  blame  me,  an'  then  I'll 
quit." 

She  couldn't  speak.  Aunt  Caroline  in  a  hoop  and  elastic- 
sided  boots  was  simply  imploring  her  to  behave  with  dignity. 

"Say  you  don't  blame  me,  Miss  Pridmore,  an'  then  I'll 
quit.  It's  not  reelly  my  fault  about  my  father."  He  laughed 
a  little,  but  she  didn't  hear  him.  "I'm  sorry,  though,  about 
the  Mariner.  If  we  could  have  brought  him  into  port,  you 
and  me,  Miss  Pridmore,  there'd  been  nothing  like  him  out- 
side the  Russians.  However  .  .  .  say  I'm  not  to  blame  .  .  . 
and  then  I'll  quit." 

She  was  unable  to  hear  what  he  was  saying. 

"Won't  you,  Miss  Pridmore?  I  can't  bear  you  should 
think  I've  played  it  low  down.  If  I  could  ha'  told  you  afore 
I'd  ha'  done  it  ...  you  can  lay  to  that." 

It  was  not  a  voice  that  she  knew,  and  she  could  not  answer 
ft, 

"Well,  I'm  sorry." 

Suddenly  he  took  her  hand,  and  its  coldness  startled  him. 

"I'll  say  good-by,"  he  said  with  a  sort  of  laugh. 

Aunt  Charlotte  primly  informed  her  niece  that  Mr.  Har- 
per was  taking  leave. 

"Oh,"  she  said.     "Good-by." 

Without  venturing  again  to  touch  the  hand  she  offered, 
he  stumbled  headlong  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs. 
He  took  his  hat  from  a  table  in  the  hall  and  let  himself  out 
of  the  front  door  before  the  butler  could  get  there.  He 
closed  the  door  after  him  with  a  sharp  bang — it  was  a  door 
with  a  patent  catch  and  could  only  be  closed  in  that  way — 
and  as  he  did  this  and  the  sound  re-echoed  along  Queen 
445 


THE  SAILOR 

Street,  the  lamp  in  the  right-hand  corner  of  his  brain  sud- 
denly went  out. 

By  the  time  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  street  it  had  grown 
very  dark.  And  as  he  turned  a  corner  and  found  himself  in 
a  street  whose  name  he  didn't  know  he  was  unable  to  see 
anything.  And  then  all  at  once  he  realized  that  Aladdin's 
lamp  was  broken  in  a  thousand  pieces,  and  he  gave  a  little 
wild  shriek  of  dismay.  The  savage  hunted  eyes  of  Mr. 
Thompson  were  gazing  at  him  from  under  the  helmet  of  a 
passing  constable. 

The  trolls  had  got  him. 

Nothing  could  help  him  now.  It  had  grown  so  dark  that 
he  couldn't  see  anything,  although  it  was  hardly  seven  at 
present  of  an  evening  in  June.  He  almost  shrieked  again  as 
he  heard  the  sniggering  voice  of  Auntie  ascend  above  the 
gathering  noises  of  the  town:  "Now,  Enery,  you  must  be  a 
man  and  bear  it." 

He  didn't  know  where  he  was  now  amid  the  maze  of  the 
little-frequented  streets  of  Mayfair.  He  had  lost  his  way 
and  he  couldn't  see.  He  was  blind  already  with  an  ever 
growing  darkness.  He  was  losing  all  sense  of  time  and  place. 
But  the  voice  of  Auntie  was  ever  in  his  ears,  exhorting  him, 
with  that  shrill  and  peculiar  snigger  of  which  she  never 
seemed  to  grow  weary,  to  be  a  man  and  bear  it,  as  he  stum- 
bled on  and  on  into  the  night. 


II 


ONE  afternoon  about  a  week  later,  Edward  Ambrose 
rang  up  No.  50,  Queen  Street,  on  the  telephone  to 
ask  if  Mary  was  at  home.    In  reply  he  was  told  by 
Silvia  that  Mary  had  gone  for  a  few  days  to  Greylands  to 
the  Ellises,  but  her  mother  would  be  very  glad  if  Edward 
446 


THE  SAILOR 

would  come  and  see  her  as  she  wished  particularly  to  have  a 
little  talk  with  him.  Edward  certainly  did  not  wish  par- 
ticularly to  have  a  little  talk  with  Lady  Pridmore  at  that 
moment,  but  there  was  no  way  out  of  it.  Thus  in  no  very 
amiable  frame  of  mind  he  drove  to  Queen  Street. 

Lady  Pridmore  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room.  She  re- 
ceived Edward  with  the  grave  cordiality  that  she  reserved 
for  favorites. 

"It  is  very  nice  of  you  to  come,  Edward.  Ring  for  some 
tea." 

That  was  like  her,  when  she  knew  quite  well  he  never 
took  tea. 

"We  are  dreadfully  worried  about  Mary." 

That  was  like  her  again.  She  was  always  dreadfully  wor- 
ried about  something,  although  nothing  in  wide  earth  or 
high  heaven  had  the  power  really  to  upset  her.  But  Edward 
for  some  reason  was  not  feeling  very  sympathetic  towards  the 
Lady  Pridmores  of  the  world  just  now. 

"And  we  blame  you." 

"Me?" 

"Yes,  we  blame  you.  It  was  you  who  first  brought  that 
young  man,  Mr.  Harper,  to  the  house." 

This  was  not  quite  in  accordance  with  the  facts.  Still, 
there  would  be  no  point  in  saying  so.  Ambrose,  therefore, 
contented  himself  with  asking,  "Well,  what  of  him?"  with 
as  much  politeness  as  he  could  muster  in  order  to  cover  a 
growing  impatience. 

"It  is  not  well,  Edward,  it  is  very  far  from  well,"  said 
Lady  Pridmore  aggrievedly.  "As  I  say,  we  are  all  dread- 
fully worried.  Mr.  Harper  turned  up  here  again  one  day 
last  week,  the  first  time  for  a  year.  And  he  saw  Mary 
alone.  Silvia  and  I  were  out — at — dear  me ! — but  it  doesn't 
matter " 

"Quite  so,"  murmured  the  courteous  Edward. 
447 


THE  SAILOR 

"Otto  met  him  coming  in  as  he  went  out." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  as  I  say,  Mary  and  Mr.  Harper  were  together 
a  long  time  and  somehow — I'm  sorry  to  tell  you  this — she  has 
seemed  quite  ill  ever  since." 

Edward  expressed  regret. 

"And  Dr.  Claughton  strongly  advised  a  change." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said  gravely. 

"She  is  so  overstrung  that  she  has  had  to  have  sleeping 
drafts.  It  is  by  Dr.  Claughton's  advice  she  has  gone  down 
to  Woking." 

"But  what  reason  have  you  to  connect  all  this  with  Mr. 
Harper?" 

"The  evening  he  saw  her  she  didn't  come  down  to  dinner. 
Now  I  would  like  you  to  tell  me  a  little  more  about — about 
Mr.  Harper.  You  brought  him  here,  you  know.  Otto  says 
he  is  not  altogether  .  .  .  Do  you  think  that?" 

"Had  I  thought  for  a  moment  that  he  was  not  a  desirable 
acquaintance  I  should  not  have  brought  him  here."  This  was 
a  shameless  begging  of  the  question;  it  was  not  he  who  had 
brought  the  young  man  there. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said  Lady  Pridmore 
with  feeling.  "That  is  exactly  what  I  said  to  Otto.  I  wish 
you  would  tell  me  all  you  know  about  this  Mr.  Harper." 

"I  am  afraid  I  can  only  tell  you  one  thing  about  him." 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Pridmore  encouragingly. 

"At  the  present  moment  he  is  very  dangerously  ill.  The 
doctors  take  a  very  grave  view  of  his  case." 

Lady  Pridmore  was  grieved  to  hear  that,  but  it  fully  con- 
firmed what  she  had  surmised. 

What  had  she  surmised? 

"I  am  quite  sure  that  something  rather  dreadful  took  place 
here  a  week  ago." 

Ambrose  felt  that  was  most  probable. 
448 


THE  SAILOR 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me,  Edward,"  said  Lady  Pridmore, 
"what  in  your  opinion  it  was  that  happened." 

The  retort  on  the  tip  of  Edward's  tongue  was,  "How  the 
devil  should  I  know!"  but  fortunately  he  didn't  allow  it  to 
pass.  He  contented  himself  with  silence. 

"I  want  to  see  Mary  most  particularly,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause.  "I  think  I'll  send  her  a  telegram  to  say  that  I  am 
coming  by  the  first  train  tomorrow." 

"Do,"  said  Lady  Pridmore.    "That  will  cheer  her  up." 


Ill 


HE  sent  a  telegram  as  he  returned  sadly  to  his  rooms. 
He  was  in  a  miserable  frame  of  mind.  Somehow 
he  was  hating  life,  but  he  was  now  fully  bent  upon 
one  thing,  and  no  peace  could  be  his  until  he  had  done  it. 

After  dinner  came  an  answer  to  say  Mary  would  be  very 
glad  to  see  him.  He  sat  smoking  endless  pipes,  until  he 
realized  that  it  would  soon  be  too  late  to  go  to  bed  if  he  was 
to  catch  an  early  train. 

On  arrival  at  Woking,  Mary  was  at  the  station  with  her 
friend's  car.  She  looked  ill,  he  thought,  but  she  seemed  very 
glad  to  see  him.  At  first  they  found  little  to  say.  Indeed, 
it  was  not  until  they  had  decided  tc  use  a  fine  morning  in 
walking  to  Greylands,  had  sent  on  the  car  and  taken  to  the 
road,  that  they  were  able  to  talk  in  the  way  they  wished. 

"I  suppose  you  don't  quite  know  why  I've  come?"  said 
Ambrose. 

"No,  I  frankly  don't,"  said  Mary,  "but  at  least,  Edward, 
it  is  always  very,  very  good  to  see  you." 

Ever  since  she  could  remember,  he  had  ranked  as  the  chief 
of  her  friends,  and  that  accounted,  perhaps,  for  a  certain 
attitude  of  mind  towards  him.  But  in  all  the  years  they  had 
449 


THE  SAILOR 

known  each  other,  in  all  the  hours  they  had  spent  in  each 
other's  company,  never  had  they  seemed  so  intimate  as  in  this 
walk  together.  And  there  was  a  very  clear  reason  why  this 
should  be  so.  Never  had  each  felt  such  a  need  of  the  other's 
perceptiveness. 

It  was  not  for  him  to  ask  what  had  happened  a  week  ago 
at  that  last  interview  in  Queen  Street.  But  she  told  him 
voluntarily. 

"I  had  promised  to  help  him,"  she  said,  growing  pale  at 
the  recollection.  "And  he  came  to  me  and  told  me  all  ... 
all  the  facts  and  the  circumstances  .  .  .  things  that  not  I 
and  not  you,  Edward  .  .  .  could  ever  have  guessed." 

"You  were  not  able  to  do  what  he  asked?" 

"No,  I  simply  was  not.  I  simply  couldn't.  I  meant  to 
help  him.  I  wanted  to.  Perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps  I  ought  to 
have  ...  but  .  .  .  but  it  was  an  abyss  he  showed  me  ... 
you  don't  know  .  .  ." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  a  little  way. 

"...  A  year  ago,  I  made  a  pledge.  And  he  counted  on 
it.  I  think  that  is  why  he  told  me  the  whole  dreadful  story. 
Had  I  not  been  a  coward,  I  should  never  have  .  .  ." 

"You  judge  yourself  too  hardly.    He  aked  too  much." 

"It  should  not  have  been  too  much.  I  ought  to  have  been 
able  to  help  him.  At  least  ...  I  ought  not  to  have  sent 
him  away  as  I  did." 

"Assuming  it  were  not  too  late,  do  you  think  you  could 
help  him  now?" 

"But  it  is  too  late."    She  was  evading  the  question. 

"It  is  not  the  view  I  take  myself.  I  saw  both  doctors 
yesterday,  and  they  have  very  little  hope  of  a  recovery.  But 
you  and  I  are  not  bound  to  agree  with  them." 

"What  can  we  do  ...  in  the  face  of  such  an  opinion?" 

"We  can  have  faith." 

"But  the  doctors?" 

450 


THE  SAILOR 

"It  is  a  purely  mental  case.  The  mind  is  the  key  of  the 
whole  matter." 

"Yes,  I  know  ...  I  know." 

"No  doctor,  however  expert,  can  ever  say  anything  posi- 
tively in  regard  to  the  mind,  provided  the  brain  is  not  dam- 
aged." 

"Isn't  it  bound  to  be?" 

"They  do  not  say  that  .  .  .  and  there  is  our  hope.  It  is 
a  special  case.  We  must  always  remember  this  man  is  dif- 
ferent from  other  people.  It  is  my  firm  belief  that  it  is  in 
your  power  to  save  him.  The  view  may  be  entirely  mistaken, 
but  it  is  my  own  personal  conviction." 

A  new  Edward  Ambrose  was  speaking.  Here  were  a 
strength  and  a  force  which  until  that  moment  he  had  not 
known  how  to  show  her.  It  may  have  been  that  the  occasion 
had  never  arisen,  or  perhaps  the  conventional  timidity  of 
his  kind  had  never  permitted  it. 

"I — I  don't  altogether  understand,"  she  said,  faintly. 

"You  took  away  his  belief.  And  I  ask  you  to  give  it  him 
back  again." 

She  walked  dully  by  his  side,  striving  as  well  as  she  could 
to  represent  to  herself  the  strange  words  he  had  used  in  a 
form  she  could  accept. 

"You  do  understand,  Mary?" 

"Isn't  it  too  late?" 

Tormenting  fears  were  again  upon  her. 

"It  may  be.  Certainly  the  doctors  think  the  balance  of 
probability  against  it.  But  I  firmly  hold  that  such  a  view 
is  not  for  those  who  know  this  poor  sailorman.  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  no  one  is  allowed  to  get  so  far  along  the 
road  in  the  face  of  such  paralyzing  odds  without  there  be- 
ing still  some  hope  of  putting  the  thing  through." 

They  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  looking  at  each 
other. 


THE  SAILOR 

"I  ...  I  think  you  are  right.  You  understand  him  so 
much  better  than  I." 

"That  we  can  neither  of  us  believe."  He  spoke  with  a 
queer  laugh.  "But  if  I  am  asking  you  to  give  too  much,  you 
mustn't  blame  me.  You  have  always  taught  me  to  ask  too 
much."  His  voice  tailed  off  in  the  oddest  way.  "But  this 
time  I  don't  ask  for  myself." 

She  was  crying.  "I  was  never  the  woman  that  you 
thought  me.  Or  that  I  thought  myself." 

She  stood  a  moment,  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks. 

"You  must  go  to  that  poor  mariner,"  he  said,  with  odd 
suddenness,  trying  now  for  the  first  time  in  all  the  long  years 
to  impose  his  will  upon  hers.  "He  has  a  very  wonderful 
cargo  on  board.  You  and  I — we  owe  it  to  each  other  and 
perhaps  to  future  generations — to  see  that  it  comes  into 
port." 

Such  a  tone  was  startling.  She  had  never  heard  it  be- 
fore. A  new  and  very  potent  voice  was  speaking. 

"There  is  no  time  to  lose."  This  was  Edward  Ambrose 
raised  to  a  higher  power.  "Every  hour  is  going  to  count. 
If  it  is  still  possible,  go  and  offer  him  a  refuge  from  the 
storm." 

She  stood  irresolute.  But  already  she  had  begun  to  waver. 
A  masculine  nature  in  its  new  and  full  expression  was  turn- 
ing the  scale. 

"If  we  go  back  at  once,"  he  said,  "there  will  be  time  to 
catch  the  twelve  o'clock  train  from  Woking.  You  can  tele- 
graph to  your  maid.  And  Catherine  Ellis  will  understand. 
Or  you  can  write  and  explain." 

Either  the  call  was  stronger  than  her  weakness,  or  she  had 
underrated  the  forces  within  herself.  For  suddenly  she 
turned  round  and  they  began  to  retrace  their  steps  along  the 
road  they  had  come. 

Good  walking  gave  them  time  for  the  midday  train  to 
452 


THE  SAILOR 

Waterloo.     Upon  arrival  at  that  terminus,  shortly  before 
one,  they  drove  to  a  nursing  home  in  Fitzroy  Square. 

Permission  had  already  been  obtained  by  Ambrose  for 
Mary  Pridmore  to  see  Henry  Harper.  It  was  felt  that  her 
presence  at  his  bedside  could  do  no  harm,  although  there  was 
very  little  hope  that  it  could  do  good.  At  any  rate,  the  nurse 
who  received  them  made  no  difficulties  about  admitting  her. 
Ambrose  took  leave  of  Mary  on  the  doorstep  in  the  casual 
rather  whimsical  way  he  affected  in  all  his  dealings  with  her, 
and  then  drove  heroically  to  his  club. 


IV 


THE  Sailor  lay  breathing  heavily.     He  was  still  just 
able  to  keep  on  keeping  on.    But  in  spite  of  the  dark- 
ened room  and  the  blindness  of  his  eyes,  he  knew  at 
once  that  she  had  come  to  him  .  .  .  the  incarnation  of  the 
good,  the  beautiful,  and  the  true  .  .  .  gray-eyed  Athena,  with 
the  plumes  in  her  helmet. 

His  prayer  had  been  heard,  his  faith  had  been  answered. 
He  knew  she  had  come  to  him,  this  emanation  of  the  divine 
justice  and  the  divine  mercy,  even  before  her  lips  had 
breathed  his  name  .  .  .  that  name  which  through  eons  of 
time,  as  it  seemed,  he  had  been  striving  to  fix  in  the  chaos 
that  once  had  been  his  brain. 


IT  was  rather  less  than  a  year  later  that  Edward  Am- 
brose, seated  in  his  favorite  chair  in  his  rooms  in  Bury 
Street,  knocked  out  the  ashes  of  a  last  pipe  before  turn- 
ing in.    He  had  already  given  a  startled  glance  at  the  clock 
453 


THE  SAILOR 

on  the  chimney  piece,  and  had  found  it  was  a  quarter  past 
three  in  the  morning. 

The  truth  was  he  had  been  oblivious  of  the  flight  of  time 
for  a  good  many  hours.  And  the  cause  of  this  lapse  was  a 
bulky  bundle  of  manuscript  which  was  still  on  his  knees.  It 
had  come  to  him  from  abroad  with  a  letter  the  previous  day. 
And  having  read  the  last  page  and  having  cleared  the  debris 
from  his  pipe,  he  yet  returned  the  pipe,  empty  as  it  was,  to 
his  mouth  and  then  read  the  letter  again. 

It  said: 

MY  DEAR  EDWARD, 

In  praying  you  to  accept  the  dedication  of  what  to  you 
and  none  other  I  venture  to  call  an  epic  of  that  strange  and 
terrible  thing,  the  unsubduable  soul  of  Man,  I  make  one 
more  demand  on  your  patience.  I  feel  that  only  a  very  brave 
man  could  father  such  a  thing  as  this  poor  mariner.  It  is  not 
that  he  has  not  proved  to  be  a  stouter  fellow  than  could  ever 
have  been  hoped.  To  say  otherwise  would  be  black  ingrati- 
tude to  those  who  sought  him  out  on  the  open  sea  and  brought 
him  safely  into  port.  If  his  book  is  more  than  was  to  have 
been  expected,  it  is  yet  less  than  the  future  promises  now  that 
other  new,  or  shall  we  say  recovered  worlds,  are  continu- 
ally opening  to  the  gaze  of  the  astonished  sailorman  as  with 
Athena  by  his  side  he  roams  the  shores  of  his  native  Ithaca, 

Drink  deep,  O  muse,  of  the  Pierian  spring, 
Unlock  the  doors  of  memory. 

If  this  prayer  is  heard,  on  a  day  Ulysses  may  proclaim  in 
native  wood-notes  wrild  the  goodness  of  the  living  God,  and 
hymn  the  glories  of  a  universe  that  man,  ill-starred  as  he 
may  be,  is  powerless  to  defile.  Even  if  such  power  is  not 
granted  to  the  mariner,  he  will  yet  have  a  happiness  he  had 
not  thought  possible  for  mortal  men  to  know.  And  she  who 
had  Wisdom  for  her  godmother,  I  hope  and  pray  she  is  also 
happy  in  self-fulfillment.  If  this  is  a  fatal  egotism,  I  am  not 
afraid  to  expose  it  to  you.  The  mariner  is  not  so  blind  that 
454 


THE  SAILOR 

he  does  not  see  that  it  is  a  more  developed,  a  far  higher  form 
of  our  species  who  sits  with  his  old  pipe  in  his  favorite  chair 
in  Bury  Street,  St.  James',  frowning  over  this  ridiculous 
letter.  You  and  she  begin  where  he  leaves  off.  What  vir- 
tue both  must  have  inherited!  And  who  shall  dare  to  say 
how  terribly  a  man  may  be  punished  for  lack  of  virtue  in  his 
ancestors. 

We  send  you  our  blessing  and  our  affection. 

H.  H. 

Having  reread  this  letter,  Edward  Ambrose  turned  again 
to  the  concluding  pages  of  the  manuscript  still  lying  upon 
his  knees.  The  clock  on  the  chimney  piece  struck  four,  but 
no  heed  was  paid  to  it.  The  empty  pipe  was  still  between 
his  teeth  when  finally  he  exclaimed:  "Yes,  it's  wonderful 
.  .  .  very  wonderful.  It  is  even  more  wonderful  than  I 
had  hoped." 

He  then  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  found  the  stem 
was  bitten  right  through. 


(13) 


STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE   STRATTON-PORTER 

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MICHAEL  O'HALLORAN.     Illustrated  by  Frances  Rogers. 

Michael  is  a  quick-witted  little  Irish  newsboy,  living  in  Northern 
Indiana.     He  adopts  a  deserted  little  girl,  a  cripple.     He  also  as- 
sumes the  responsibility  of  leading  thg  entire  rural  community  up« 
wai  d  and  onward, 
LADDIE.      Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  the  scenes  laid  in  Indiana.  The 
Btory  is  told  by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of  a  large  family, 
but  it  is  concerned  not  so  much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family.  Chief  among  them  ia  that 
of  Laddie  and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has  come  to  live  in 
the  neighborhood  and  about  whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery. 
THE  HARVESTER.  Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"  The  Harvester, "  ia  a  man  of  the  woods  and  fields,  and  if  the 
book  had  nothing  in  it  but  the  splendid  figure  of  thii  man  it  would 
be  notable.  But  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his  "  Medicine  Woods," 
there  begins  a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality.  fc 

FRECKLES.      Illustrated. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  in 
which  he  takes,  hold  of  life  ;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp  ;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality  ;  and  his 
love-story  with  "  The  Angel "  are  full  of  real  sentiment, 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST.  ^Illustrated. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods ;  a  buoyant,  loveable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things  ;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by 
the  sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  from 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage* 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW.  Illustrations  ia  colors. 

The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  ia  laid  in  Central  Indiana 
The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing 
love.     The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of 
nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  CARDINAL.     Profusely  illustrated. 

A  love  ideal  of  the  Cardinal  bird  and  his  mate,  told  with  delicacy 
and  humor. 

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MOTHER.     Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  book  has  a  fairy-story  touch,  [counterbalanced  by 
the  sturdy  reality  of  struggle,  sacrifice,  and  resulting  peace 
and  power  of  a  mother's  experiences. 

SATURDAY'S  CHILD. 
Frontispiece  by  F.  Graham  Cootes. 

Out  on  the  Pacific  coast  a  normal  girl,  obscure  and  lovely, 
makes'  a  quest  for  happiness.  She  passes  through  three 
stages— poverty,  wealth  and  service— and  works  out  a 
creditable  salvation. 

THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE. 
Illustrated  by  Lucius  H.  Hitchcock. 

The  story  [of  a  sensible  woman  who'keeps  within  her 
means,  refuses  to  be  swamped  by  social  engagements,  lives 
a  normal  human  life  of  varied  interests,  and  has  her  own 
romance. 

THE  STORY  OF  JULIA  PAGE. 

Frontispiece  by  Allan  Gilbert. 

How  Julia  Page,  reared  in  rather  unpromising  surround* 
ings,  lifted  herself  through  sheer  determination  to  a  highei 
plane  of  life. 

THE  HEART  OF  RACHAEL. 
frontispiece  by  Charles  E.  Chambers. 

Rachael  is  called  upon  to  solve  many  problems,  and  in 
working  out  these,  there  is  shown  the  beauty  and  strength 
of  soul  of  one  of  fiction's  most  appealing  characters. 

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